Bound for Life
by TraSan
Summary: The South is chock full of stories of restless spirits and unexplained occurences. Dean really shouldn't have been surprised when something latched onto his supernatural magnet of a little brother. Auction fic dedicated to spnMom. Now Complete.
1. Ring Around the Rosy

**Bound for Life**

**Disclaimer: **The show belongs to Kripke and the CW. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By the irreplaceable Wysawyg. I don't own her either.

_I did some serious tinkering after she beta'd so as usual any and all mistakes are mine!_

**Dedicated: **To SpnMom, who graciously and generously bid on me at the fund-raising auction organized by K Hanna Korossy to benefit a fellow Supernatural fan and author.

I hope this is close to what you were looking for! Fingers crossed, because it took a hard right turn into odd first thing. :D

…………………………………………………….**Ring Around the Rosy**…………………………………………………

"We're lost." Dean slowed the Impala to a crawl, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he leaned way over attempting to read the map over Sam's shoulder. Sun glinted off the hood, the warm spring day smelled of honeysuckle and wild strawberries. Humidity hung on like a second skin, causing Dean's shirt to melt to his chest.

"We're not lost, Dean," Sam insisted. He glanced at Dean before returning his scrutiny to the map. "Don't you think you should watch the road and leave the navigation to me?"

Dean straightened in the seat. "Yeah, well I thought that too, but that was before you got us lost," Dean said, a smirk curling his lips.

"We're not lost." Sam sighed. He ran a hand through his hair pushing unruly, longer locks of hair off his forehead. "Tammy said to turn onto Sugar Pine Road. I can't find it on the map and there hasn't been a sign for it."

"Tammy, now she was hot in a good way." Dean smirked and cast a pointed look in Sam's direction. The tall, blonde waitress at the diner had definitely been worth the stop. "Unlike little brothers who are stinking up my car."

Sam tugged on his t-shirt and sniffed. "Hate to break it to you, Dean, but you don't smell so great yourself."

Dean opened his mouth to retort when a small, homemade wooden sign caught his attention. He slowed the crawling car to a stop and squinted. "What do you know, Sammy," Dean said. "I figured out where we are."

Sam looked up from the map and shot Dean a questioning look. "What? Where?"

"Sugar Pine Road," Dean said, slapping Sam on the chest and pointing in the direction of the sign. "Looks like it's a good thing I took over navigation."

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed. "Whatever, Dean."

Dean chuckled and turned the Impala sharply onto the rutted, tire track road. The grassy median strip waved a greeting as they drove through the increasingly remote country-side. Tall shade trees with ambling branches stretched over the road. The sound of bullfrogs croaking in the marshy grasses filled the air, audible over the Impala's throaty V-8.

"You hear that, Sam?" Dean asked, calling his brother back from whatever field trip his mind had taken.

Sam creased his brow in concentration. "Yeah," Sam said. "You know the southern saying, 'If rain is coming, the bullfrogs sing.'"

Dean raised an eyebrow and scrunched his face. "I don't even want to know how you know that." He shook his head. "I meant you can practically hear the banjoes playing."

"It can't be any worse than Hibbing." Sam shivered in the warm air. "God, it stunk in that barn."

"Didn't smell any better in the house, trust me." Water splashed up the side of the car when Dean hit a deep puddle. "This hunt was your idea, Sam, and now my baby is paying the price."

"We're here," Sam said, ignoring Dean's outburst. "To the left."

The rutted road gave way to the house drive which was barely more than down-trodden grass. A shabby two story house with peeling white paint leaned noticeably eastward towards the rising sun. "Remind me again, why this is a good idea?" Dean asked.

"I never said it was a good idea exactly," Sam said. He folded the map, tucking it above the visor. He stuck the rumpled paper with driving instructions in his jeans pocket. "I said the locals have several ghost sightings and stories for this area. There's the 'crying child,' the 'woman of the marshes' and the 'old hag.' Tammy said Miss Violet has lived in this house her entire life. If anyone has seen something strange around here, Violet is our most likely candidate."

"And you think they're responsible for the people who have been attacked?" Dean parked the car and killed the engine, turning to face his little brother. "The reported injuries don't exactly sound like a typical woman in white or old hag."

"I think it's as good a place to start as any," Sam replied. "A lot of these old sharecrop farms have family plots. If someone's disturbed one of them somehow…"

"It would account for the recent activity," Dean agreed with a head nod. He looked over at the house and back to Sam. "Man, you just know it's gonna smell like old lady and cat piss in there."

"Let's go," Sam said. He climbed out of the car and headed down the stone path to the house.

Dean pocketed his keys and followed after his brother. "Sam, hold up." Sam paused and Dean closed the distance in a couple of running steps. "How long are we going to be here?"

"What's it matter?" Sam asked. "It's not like we have anything going on tonight." Dean tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow. "You do have plans?"

"I told you, Sammy," Dean said, walking past Sam and continuing to the door. "Tammy's hot in all the right ways."

Sam shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Thanks," Dean replied. The screen door hung crooked, one set of hinges broken off. He knocked on the door.

"That's not what I…" the rest of Sam's retort was cut off when the heavy, wooden door creaked open.

An ancient woman with a walnut face and wild, white hair stood in the doorway. She wore a nondescript blue dress and there were no shoes on her puffy feet. "What can we do for you boys?" she asked in a crackling voice.

"Miss Violet?" Sam asked, "We're students at ASU and we're doing a paper on the history of the area. I was hoping we could talk to you?"

"Come in, come in," Violet said, swinging the door wider in invitation. She turned and walked down the dim hallway. "It's not often we get visitors."

Dean stepped into the house and the smell overpowered his senses immediately. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned to Sam. 'I told you,' he mouthed to his little brother.

Sam rolled his eyes and entered the house. "So, uh, Miss Violet, how long have you lived in the area?"

"Was born in this house, will die in this house," Violet replied. She gestured for the boys to take a seat. She slowly backed into a wooden rocker, her ample frame filling the chair.

The stale air in the house was oppressive and sultry. It blanketed their skin, hanging heavy around them. Dean took a seat across from Violet and fidgeted in his chair. He hated these meet and greet sessions. He glanced about the room at the old-fashioned winding clocks, the worn wooden floor, old family photographs and oil lamps. It was the home that time forgot.

The squeaking of the rocking chair interrupted Dean's inspection and he turned his full attention back to his brother. "Local legend tells of at least three different spirit hauntings in the area and I was wondering if you've ever seen anything unusual out in the marshes?" Sam asked.

"Ain't never seen a ghost," Violet replied. "But this is the South, honey. Of course, there's spirits haunting these hills and grasslands."

Sam nodded, his eyes taking on the near brown quality of empathy. Dean wondered if Sam had any clue how well that worked or that it even happened. "You've never seen anything unusual? Something you couldn't explain?"

"Well, now that is a different question altogether," Violet replied. She rocked in the chair, keeping perfect time with her southern lilt. A bright orange, fat cat jumped into her lap and settled in. She stroked the cat as she talked. It blinked lazily at Dean. "Never quite have figured out how babies grow inside a woman's body. How does that happen? That's just wrong."

Dean spluttered and coughed to cover it. He ignored the scrunched look of exasperation on Sam's face. He wondered how Sam was going to answer that question. Violet gave Dean a sympathetic look. "Have some sweet tea, honey," Violet offered pointing to the pitcher and glasses on the coffee table. "Henry won't mind sharing and it'll help that cough. Take a cookie too."

"Thank you, Miss Violet," Dean said, leaning forward to pour a glass of tea. Dean grabbed three cookies and shoved one into his mouth and delighted in the sweet and buttery flavor. He caught her eye and nodded. "It's good."

"Our mama's recipe," Violet replied with a smile.

Sam cleared his throat. "I meant something more unusual. You know, like strange sounds in the house, lights you can't explain, cold spots?" Sam explained.

Violet tilted her head in concentration. She stopped petting the cat and stared thoughtfully into space. "Most everything's a little odd."

"Lady, you don't know the half of it," Dean muttered under his breath. Sam kicked him, the tip of his boot catching Dean in the ankle. He glared at Sam.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Violet," Sam said. He scooted forward in his chair to stand.

Violet's cloudy, blue-gray eyes shot over to Sam. She reached out with quickness that Dean would not have expected and grasped Sam's hands. The wide-eyed look of surprise on Sam's face faded to a blank expression. Dean stood, grabbed Sam by the elbow and hauled him to his feet breaking the connection with Violet. Sam gasped as Dean walked him a few steps past Violet, towards the door.

"Sam, you okay?" Dean asked, watching Sam's face for some sign as to what had just taken place.

"I'm fine," Sam said, not meeting Dean's gaze. "Just need some air." He walked down the hall, fingers tapping the wall every few feet as if to keep his balance.

Dean turned from watching Sam's exit back to the old woman in the living room. "I'm not sure what just went on here, but we have to go," Dean snapped, shooting a glare in Violet's direction.

Violet did not get up from the rocking chair nor did she acknowledge Dean's statement. She sat rocking, the old chair creaking against the wooden floor. Dean waved a hand of dismissal in her direction and turned on his heel to follow Sam out the door.

Sam was on the far side of the Impala, resting on the hood. He had his back to Dean, but Dean could see the tension across his shoulders. He turned his head to the side in acknowledgement as Dean approached. "Sam, what the hell happened in there?"

"Nothing." Sam turned and opened the passenger door. He glanced over at Dean, a blush of embarrassment visible on his face. He fidgeted under Dean's scrutiny until he slid onto the seat.

Dean joined Sam in the car, but didn't start the engine. They sat without talking, the silence stretching. Dean placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam, what happened?"

Sam looked at Dean briefly before returning his gaze to his hands. It hadn't been long, but it had been enough. The look in Sam's eyes, the slightly furrowed brow, and the half-wince when he turned his head all meant one thing. Sam was afraid of what Dean would think. "Her hands were cold."

Dean wasn't sure whether to laugh with relief or slug his brother for causing him to worry. He did neither. "Her hands were cold?"

"Yeah, Dean, I know how it sounds." Sam turned to look at Dean. "They were unnaturally cold." Sam's eyes flicked away briefly.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "And?"

Sam huffed. "It doesn't matter because it doesn't make any sense."

The rain that had held back all afternoon started falling, the first splashes of large drops hitting the windshield. Dean moved his hand from Sam's shoulder to his arm in a half-grounding, half-comforting gesture. "Come on, Sammy, this is me."

Sam swallowed hard. "It almost felt like she wasn't in there."

The rain came down in earnest, punching the roof of the Impala with hard knocks. Dean rolled up his window and motioned for Sam to do the same. He didn't need Sam to explain what he meant, Sam's newly discovered psychic abilities had blipped when Violet had grabbed his hand. The real question was not how Sam knew, but what it meant. The problem being, he couldn't think of a response that wouldn't sound like he was dismissing his brother's statement. "Think we should go back inside?"

Sam shook his head, leaning back against the seat. "Not yet."

"You sure?" Dean didn't want to go back in, not until he had a better idea what he was up against, but he would for his little brother.

"I'm sure, let's just go."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Sister, we can't let them leave." Violet pulled back the curtain and looked through the rain streaked window to the car parked outside. The men were still here. "He's the one." Violet pushed open the window to let in a fresh breeze, then dropped the curtain and walked over to her sister.

Daisy sat rocking in the chair, not saying a word.

Violet took a seat in front of her, placing a hand on Daisy's knee. "We ain't neither one of us happy about this, but we can't wait," Violet said.

Daisy frowned. She rocked faster, harder, the squeaking chair gaining volume.

Violet sighed. "We both wanted a lady, but we need help now."

A tear rolled down Daisy's cheek and she clumsily swatted Violet's hand off her knee.

Violet stood and pulled Daisy into one-armed hug, resting her head on Daisy's shoulder. "We've been upset ever since mama died, but we need to focus, sister. We need help before we are too weak to help ourselves," she whispered.

She felt Daisy nod against her cheek.

Violet embraced her sister tighter. "Let's fetch those boys back here."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The first time Sam's breathing hitched Dean knew something was wrong. Dean turned off the car. They hadn't even made it out of the driveway. "Sam?" He twisted in the seat to get a good look at his little brother. Sam's face was pale, eyes reflecting pain. One hand clutched at his side while the other shot out blindly searching for Dean. He grasped Dean's arm. "Sam, what's the matter?"

Sam didn't answer, but his ragged breathing did nothing to reassure Dean. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, fingers close enough to brush Sam's neck and surreptitiously check his pulse. Sam's heartbeat raced under Dean's thumb. Fingers tightened around Dean's arm and a small groan escaped Sam's lips. "Sammy, talk to me," Dean urged.

"My side," Sam said between gasping breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.

"Your side?" Dean repeated. He had thought maybe Sam was having a vision. A new, undefined pain ratcheted up Dean's concern. The confined space inside the Impala made it difficult to take a closer look at Sam's side. He pulled Sam closer, tilting him until Sam's head rested on his chest.

"Agh!" Sam's body arced, his head pressing hard into Dean's chest.

"Sam! Sammy, what's wrong with your side?" Dean could hear the note of panic in his voice; he could only hope Sam did not.

"I, I'm not sure." Sam pulled his shirt up revealing an angry, gaping wound. He dug long fingers into his side, pulling, stretching the torn skin further. Blood ran down his hand leaving streaks of red on Sam's arm.

"Sam, stop it!" Dean commanded, grabbing Sam's wrists and pulling his hands away from the wound. Sam struggled against Dean's restraining grip as his body stiffened again.

"Please," Sam begged. The plaintive tone cut deeply into Dean. There was almost nothing he hated more than watching Sam suffer and being unable to do anything to fix it.

"Sam, you're hurting yourself, try to breathe through it," Dean stated with a calmness he didn't feel.

"Dean, help me. It's trying to get inside," Sam panted. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead creating a glossy sheen on his deathly pale face.

Salt. He needed salt or holy water, something, anything to protect Sam against whatever was attacking him. "Sam, I have to get the salt out of the trunk." Dean moved to slide out from under Sam, but stopped, unsure. He'd have to release Sam, obviously, to get out of the car, leaving Sam free to dig into his side again. He scooted inches closer to the door, his little brother following his movement.

"No, don't go." Sam's muscles quivered with the effort of holding back another scream.

The faint underlying fear in Sam's voice made his next words that much more difficult to say. "I have to. I'll be right back."

He turned to open the car door and saw Violet standing a short distance from the Impala. The rain streamed off her hair and dress, adding to the pool of water at her bare feet. The vacant expression on her face did nothing to ease Dean's apprehension. With a small breath of exhaled air, Sam's taut muscles wilted, collapsing across the seat into Dean's lap. "Sam?"

Dean placed two fingers on his brother's neck, breathing a sigh of relief at the slowing cadence. Sam seemed to be breathing easier, his chest rising and falling in full, deep movements. "Sam?" Sam did not respond, his quiet breaths sounding louder in the now silent Impala.

A knock on the window caused Dean to jump, hitting his knee on the steering wheel. Violet was standing only inches from the car, she was talking, but Dean couldn't hear her over the pounding rain. He cracked the window, leaning close to the opening without taking his hand off Sam's shoulder. "What?"

"The Davis bridge will be washed out," Violet said. "Always is when it rains."

"We'll take our chances," Dean snapped. He didn't trust Violet with his brother. He started to roll up the window, but Violet stuck her hand through the open glass, hanging onto the window.

"It's always washed out and there ain't no place else to go," Violet insisted. "Come inside until the rain lets up."

"Go in the house," Dean ordered. "We're leaving." To his surprise, Violet released her hold on the window and took a step backwards.

Dean wasted no time starting the Impala and backing out of the drive. Having Sam's long body stretched across the seat made for an awkward driving position, but Dean managed it. As he pulled away from the house, he could see Violet through the rearview mirror standing in the rain, her dress plastered against her body. She didn't seem to be in any hurry to go back inside and get out of weather, but Dean wasn't about to waste any time worrying about her after what had happened to Sam.

They weren't more than a few clicks down the road before Sam stirred. He moaned low and made waking rustling movements. "Dean?"

"Here." Dean took one hand off the steering wheel to squeeze Sam's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Sam pushed off Dean's lap and groaned, collapsing back to his starting position. "It's gone."

"Yeah, well, you're bleeding, Sam. Lie still." Dean pushed gently on Sam, forcing him to lie down again. Sam lay at an odd angle, legs bent and curled on the floorboards, one arm draped across his side. He realized, belatedly, that Sam hadn't really answered his question.

The windshield wipers beat a percussive accompaniment to the melodic patter of falling rain. Visibility was poor at best and Dean bit back a curse. "What happened?" Sam asked. He probed the wound on his side with careful deliberateness.

"I was kind of hoping you could tell me." The rear tires of the Impala hit slick mud causing it to fishtail wildly. Dean turned the steering wheel in the opposite direction of the skid willing the tires to grab hold. "Come on baby," he urged. The rocking car jostled its occupants. Sam groaned behind tightly pressed lips. "Sorry," Dean apologized after the car's motion stabilized.

Sam nodded and Dean waited while Sam regained his composure. "I think it was the same thing that attacked the others," Sam said.

"Why?" Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The fact was, he and Sam frequently found themselves standing between evil and strangers, but he couldn't help but feel there was more to it than that.

"Same type of experience," Sam explained. "The wound in the side, the feeling that something was trying to get inside." Sam paused taking a deep, if somewhat shaky, breath. "The fear of dying."

"You're not going to die, Sam," Dean said tightly. He couldn't spare a hand to comfort his brother so he settled for bouncing the leg Sam's head rested on instead.

"I didn't think I was going to die," Sam said. Something about Sam's statement didn't quite ring true, but Dean let it slide. "Whatever is doing this…" Sam groaned again when the car bounced roughly out of a pothole. "It's afraid, very afraid, that it's going to die."

"It should be," Dean growled.

Sam pushed himself to a sitting position and braced himself by pressing one hand against the dashboard. "It's really coming down," Sam said ignoring Dean's previous statement.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Ya think?" He spared a glance at Sam. "Just keep pressure on it, Sam, and quit poking it. It's not going to stop bleeding if you don't leave it alone."

It was Sam's turn to raise his eyebrows in incredulousness. It didn't stop the automatic little brother defense mechanisms from kicking in. "I'm not poking it. I'm just trying to get a better look."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam and turned his attention back to the road. He hadn't looked away long, but it was long enough. Dean eased his foot on the brake and the car slid sideways, the momentum pushing them forward. He pressed the pedal to the floor and the Impala continued to swing crazily from side to side.

"Dean!"

"I got it." Except, he didn't. Although the car slowed, the front tires slid off the embankment, the useless, washed out bridge mocking them. Dean had both feet on the brake pedal now, not that it would stop the car. The heavy engine alone would pull them down. "Sam, hang on!" he shouted, before the front bumper hit the wooden support beam of the bridge and his head hit the steering wheel.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Violet waited patiently for Henry to arrive. They'd always been able to count on the elderly general maintenance man and farm hand. He'd been on the farm longer than Violet and Daisy, he knew all their secrets. Daisy had loved Henry from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. Violet loved Henry because he was kind to both of them.

The screen door squeaked opened and closed followed by clomping footsteps coming down the hall. Moments later, Henry appeared. He crossed the room, taking a seat in front of Violet. "You okay?" he asked kindly.

"No, Henry, we need your help," Violet replied, ceasing in her rocking. "It's raining hard. Hate to see those boys get themselves in a peck of trouble out there."

"You want me to take the truck and fetch them back here?" Henry asked. He pushed the green and dingy white feed-seed hat farther up his forehead. "That bridge is nearly always washed out in the rain. I could probably catch those boys in time."

"Told them that much," Violet said, rocking in her chair. "Henry, can't thank you enough for taking care of us after Mama and Daddy passed on. Ain't had much to repay your kindness, but it's appreciated." She smiled, letting Henry know she was pleased with his willingness to help.

"I know that, Miss Violet," Henry said sitting down, his knees cracking in protest. "I don't need much though. I enjoy helping you." He picked up a glass of sweet tea and took a gulp, a smile lighting his face. "We're practically family."

"True, true," Violet replied. Water dripped down her dress and pooled around her feet, blue from the cold. "Wonder if you might do us a small favor this evening."

"Sure thing," Henry replied. He nodded in the direction of Violet's bedroom. "But you need to change those clothes first, you're soaked through."

"Will soon enough," Violet assured him. "Can change while you're out and about."

"Well, spit it out, Miss Violet." Henry fidgeted on the hardback chair, his sore hip obviously troubling him.

"We want you to fetch only one of those boys for us." Violet stopped rocking and fixed a milky blue eye on Henry. "The tall one with the hair."

"What about the other?" Henry asked, frowning in puzzlement. "I've known many brothers in my lifetime and I can tell you this much. Those two are brothers, no matter what they might have said. Ain't no way I'm getting one to come without the other. 'Sides how am I supposed to overpower two men less than half my age, anyhow?"

"Henry, the older boy will just get in our way. You'll think of something, always do." Violet took one of Henry's gnarled hands in hers. "Please, Henry, for Daisy."

"Now, that's just not playing fair," Henry admonished. He stood and helped Violet to her feet. "I tell you what, Miss Violet. I don't know why you only want the younger boy here, but if you get changed into dry clothes, I'll figure something out."

"That's our Henry," Violet said, patting him lightly on the cheek. "Knew we could count on you."

"Always." Henry guided Violet by the elbow to her bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.

Violet shed her wet dress as she walked to the wardrobe. "Knew we could count on you, Henry," she repeated with a whisper and a smile.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Through a fuzzy haze of white, Dean saw Sam slumped over on the passenger side, his head against the door. He tried to call out to his Sam, but the words wouldn't make it past his lips. "Mssmam." It sounded more like a mumbled protest than his little brother's name. Sam responded by raising his head.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely over a whisper. "You okay?"

"Ssmmm." Closer, but it still didn't sound like anything intelligible. He turned his head and rested it against the steering wheel.

"Dean?" Sam's voice rose. "Come on, Dean, look at me."

_Had he closed his eyes? _Sam's fingers were cold on his neck. He opened his eyes directly into his brother's concerned hazel. Sam held up his fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," Dean answered correctly. He held up his hand, pretending to examine his waggling fingers. "Why do they call them fingers? I've never seen them fing."

"Simpsons?" Sam furrowed his brow. "Now?"

"Hell yeah," Dean said, his lips curling into a grin. "Any time's a good time. That's quality entertainment right there."

Sam chuckled and groaned, clutching his side. He tilted his head, listening, then looked around, searching. "Did you hear a car?"

"No." Dean peered into the inky blur around him, but he couldn't make much of anything out past the Impala's interior. "Wait here."

"Like hell, Dean," Sam protested. "You were unconscious for a minute."

"How would you know? I was awake before you," Dean said, ignoring the obvious implication. "I'm going to get the kit and stitch up your side."

"You think it needs stitches?" Sam asked, his hazel eyes taking on the appearance of a kicked dog.

"Probably," Dean said. "At least after you got done pulling on it."

Sam's eyes held a glint of embarrassed apology before flicking away. "It felt like something was trying to burrow into my side. I swear, Dean, I could feel it."

"I believe you." Sam's head whipped back in his direction, the look of surprise falling off almost in time to hide it from Dean. "Sam, something attacked you. The question is what and why."

"I didn't tell you everything," Sam confessed quietly.

"I know," Dean said. Sam's head shot up, his eyes wide. "Sam, I don't always know _what_ you're keeping from me, but I always know _when_ you are." It was a lie, he didn't always know, but Sam didn't need to know that.

"It's afraid." Sam repeated from earlier, his voice barely over a whisper. "The feeling was intense." Sam averted his gaze and peered out the rain streaked window. The next words were low, but Sam's voice was steady. "Intense enough I couldn't tell it wasn't my own fear right away. It felt like it was bonding with me somehow."

Sam's eyes flicked back to Dean and Dean understood. Sam wasn't afraid of whatever had attacked him, he was afraid of what it represented. That his shining had attracted some unknown supernatural entity and that it said something about Sam. "Bonding with you?" Dean couldn't stop the smallest of smirks despite the seriousness of the situation. "That sounds vaguely dirty."

Sam huffed and some of the anxiety fell from his face as Dean had hoped would happen. "How are we going to get out of here?"

"Ever hear of a tow truck, Sammy?" Dean smiled and pulled out his cell phone. "Hopefully, there's more than one way over the creek." Sam nodded and shifted in the seat, his face scrunching momentarily in pain. Dean pressed two fingers to the bridge of nose and pushed back a threatening headache. He pulled out his cell phone and bit back an expletive. No signal, of course not.

Dean's stomach rumbled and churned. _Great, nausea to go with the knock to the head, always a fun combination. _

"Hey, Dean, are you feeling okay?" Sam's voice sounded at full strength, but the rough edges reminded Dean that the first thing he needed to do was patch up his little brother.

"I'm good." Dean pushed the queasiness down and fumbled with the door handle. "I'm going after the kit."

"Okay." Sam's sweat-dampened hair was plastered to his forehead. He ran a hand through his increasingly longer bangs and it poked out in several different directions.

Dean exited the car and slowly walked back to the trunk. He ducked under the cover of the trunk lid and pulled out the first aid kit, a bottle of holy water and the rock salt. This time he wouldn't be caught unprepared. Slamming the lid closed, Dean walked around the car and knocked on the passenger window, motioning for Sam to scoot over. By the time he slipped back into the car, he was soaked through.

"You're wet." Sam said. Dean paused at the obvious statement and took a closer look at Sam. The crinkles around Sam's eyes spoke of pain, but the hazels were clear and aware. Sam had possibly taken his own knock to the head, but he was teasing not confused.

"You're a riot," Dean countered. He twisted in the seat, motioning for Sam to pull up his shirt.

Sam frowned, but he leaned against the door, wrapping his arm around the steering wheel. He pulled the cotton fabric high. Sam craned his neck, examining the hole in his side. "It looks almost like a bite," he commented giving it a poke.

"Geez, Sam," Dean said. "Leave it alone."

"Like you would?" Amusement glinted in the hazel orbs before Dean batted Sam's hand away from the wound.

The foggy, rain-streaked windows and gray sky made it too dark to see well. Dean pulled out a flashlight, shining it on the injury. He could see what Sam had meant about it looking like a bite. The flesh was jagged and torn rather than a clean cut or smooth like a bullet hole. Blood oozed slowly, but the wound didn't appear too deep. "You know I need to use the holy water on this."

"Yeah, I know," Sam replied. He wiped a sweaty hand off on his raised shirt and re-established his grip on the steering wheel. "I'm ready."

Dean nodded and unscrewed the flask of holy water. He poured water over the wound, watching until the bubbling stopped and the water ran clear. He tried to ignore the small groan from his brother and the tense, shaking muscles, but ignoring Sam simply wasn't the way Dean was hard-wired. "Almost done," he assured.

Sam nodded, but didn't say a word. His grip on the wheel relaxed when Dean put the water flask away. "How's it look?"

"Like something tried to eat you for lunch," Dean said. The humor had the desired effect and Sam visibly relaxed as a small huff escaped past his lips. Dean threaded a needle and then made eye contact with Sam. "You need a minute?"

"No." Sam breathed deeply several times and closed his eyes. Eight neat stitches later, Dean dressed the wound and pulled Sam's shirt down.

"You hurt anywhere else?" Dean asked, his own headache throbbing now that he no longer had Sam's injury to occupy his mind.

"A bump on my head, same as you," Sam confessed, straightening in the seat, squishing Dean against the passenger door. "Otherwise, no."

"Good," Dean said, pressing a hand to his stomach when it gurgled loudly.

Sam wrinkled his forehead. "Man, you are a human garbage disposal, aren't you? I saw the cookies you inhaled at Miss Violet's."

"Hey, they were good," Dean defended. His intestines twisted and Dean groaned.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked. His brow had changed from the wrinkles of disgust to the scrunch of concern.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said. He grimaced as another wave of nausea hit. He pressed a hand to his lower stomach as cramps twisted in his gut. "No, I'm not. I have to go."

"Go?" Sam asked. "Dean, it's pouring rain and besides, we're stuck."

"I don't want to leave," Dean explained. "I have to _go."_

"Oh," Sam said, the dawn of realization lighting in his eyes. "Oh man, Dean, that sucks." It might have sounded sincere if Sam hadn't practically snorted, the laughter barely contained.

"Dude, you better just let this one go," Dean growled. "I mean it, Sam."

"But, I don't have to go," Sam said with a wide grin, dimples sinking further into his cheeks.

"Sam," Dean said his brother's name as if issuing a warning. He rifled through the glove box. Sam almost always stuck a couple extra napkins inside. He found three under the maps and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. "I'll be right back," he said, slipping out the door.

Sam waved a hand in dismissal, sliding the rest of the way back over to the passenger side. "Don't get lost."

Dean glared at his little brother. "Bite me." He slammed the door shut on Sam's retort. Dean hunkered his shoulders against the rain and trudged through the slick, clay mud towards the cover of bushes.

He ducked behind the first row, turning to face the Impala. It was a no go. Under normal circumstances he might stay within sight of the car, but not for this. He walked back further until only the barest outline of the car stayed within viewing distance.

Thunder rolled overhead. "This sucks," Dean muttered. Another cramp hit pulling another groan from Dean's lips. There was no use prolonging the agony. Dean found an acceptable spot. Five minutes later, he made his way back to the Impala. He never wanted to do that again.

The Impala windows were fogged up from condensation. As Dean approached he was thankful for that fact. It meant there was no way Sam had seen him taking care of business in the underbrush. He ripped the driver's door open, immediately noticing the broken glass and the empty car.

"Sam?" Dean straightened and scanned the horizon on all directions. "Sammy!"

Only rumbling thunder and falling rain answered Dean's call.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

AN: I will post spnMom's prompts at the end of the next chapter (when more is revealed).

I would be remiss without thanking several people who helped me through a little writer's angst at the idea of writing for an audience of one who actually donated money in return for a story.

Wysawyg – who puts up with angst-ridden emails, three and four versions of the same chapter within twenty-four hours while I begin my pre-beta tweaks, and as always, for providing the really hardcore feedback to help me re-think and re-write until I'm comfortable enough to post. :D

Muffy Morrigan – as always, for letting me bounce idea after idea off of her sometimes with the tinge of panic … "Read this now!..Uh, please?"

Carocali – for offering some great insight and feedback.

And to another friend and author, for not only offering feedback at a critical point, but also helping me past the biggest stumbling block I had with this chapter -- how to get Dean away from Sam. :D

**And finally – another thank you to spnMom for her donation and story prompts!**

Thanks all!

And a huge thank you to everyone else who reads!

As always – feedback welcome and appreciated.


	2. Pocket Full o' Posies

**Bound for Life**

**Disclaimer: **The boys, the car, and the concept belong to Kripke and the folks at CW. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By the best darn beta and fellow author, Wysawyg. Truly, I can't thank her enough.

_As usual, I played after she beta'd so any and all remaining errors are mine._

**Dedicated: **To SPNMom. Thank you so much for your donation _and _for being such fun to work with (or is that for?). LOL

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_Thunder rolled overhead. "This sucks," Dean muttered. Another cramp hit and Dean groaned. There was no use prolonging the agony. Dean found an acceptable spot. Five minutes later, he made his way back to the Impala. He never wanted to do that again. _

_The Impala windows were fogged up from condensation. As Dean approached he was thankful for that fact. It meant there was no way Sam had seen him taking care of business in the underbrush. He ripped the driver's door open, immediately noticing the broken glass and the empty car._

"_Sam?" Dean straightened and scanned the horizon on all directions. "Sammy!"_

_Only rumbling thunder and falling rain answered Dean's call._

…………..……….………………………………**A Pocket Full o' Posies**……………………………………………..

It was dark. The floor beneath him vibrated, suggesting movement. An engine rumbled, accompanied by the steady hum of tires. Sam lifted his head, but he couldn't make out anything in the inky blackness. The space simply _felt _bigger than the Impala. The vehicle hit a large bump, shaking its unwilling occupant. Sam's shoulder hit hard against the floor, followed by his head and oblivion returned.

-0-0-

His arm was draped over someone's shoulder, someone shorter and weaker than his big brother. Sam made a valiant effort to raise his head, but the nausea was over-whelming and his equilibrium shot. He staggered blindly, unresisting, waiting for the world to stop spinning. It never did.

-0-0-

_Lavender, violets and roses? _Pain blossomed from the knot at the base of his skull, climbing upwards over the top of his head and settling behind his eyes. There was no way Dean had checked them into a motel that smelled this floral unless he was truly desperate. Sam wracked his brain trying to remember the last thing he'd been doing - he remembered the rain, the mud and – the crash.

"Dean?" Sam fought to lift heavy lids, quickly closing them again when the blurry landscape dipped and swirled. "Dean?"

"Sh-sh-sh." A cold finger touched his lips. Sam twisted his head away as the green and yellow form bobbed closer. "Everything's okay." The hand through his hair was an unwelcome intrusion, but Sam forced himself not to react, focusing instead on squelching nausea and stopping the bed from spinning.

"Dean?" His big brother had to be here somewhere, he always was.

"Dean's not here." The voice moved away along with the green and yellow dress. "We didn't invite him."

"What?" Sam winced at the volume of his voice. "What do you mean?" He attempted to rise up onto his elbows and found his wrists were tied to the iron framework, keeping him pressed firmly to the bed. He tugged on the restraints, gently at first, and then with more dedicated effort.

The adrenaline helped clear his fuzzy head, but did nothing to ease his growing panic. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good. His arms were trapped, tied wide against the bed and Dean – Dean was missing. He pulled harder, tugging and twisting his hands until his sluggish brain caught up to his desperation. He wouldn't be able to wriggle free this way.

Sam looked around, his vision less blurry. It wasn't a hospital room. It appeared to be a bedroom. The dark green, velvet curtains, the antique dresser, even the bed itself were all normal bedroom furnishings. The woman in the green-leafed and yellow-flowered dress turned around. It was Violet.

"Miss Violet?" Sam's head pounded as he tried to put the facts together. It simply didn't make sense why he was back here with Violet, Dean missing, and his wrists tied to the bed. Violet could not have overpowered Dean, unless… "Where's Dean?"

"We didn't invite him," Violet repeated. She walked over to Sam with a painfully slow gait and a slight limp. Sam's body jerked involuntarily as she approached, his ankles catching. His legs were tied to the bed as well.

"What's going on?" Sam had a flash of Dean, unconscious, his head resting on the steering wheel of the Impala. "Is Dean okay? Where's Dean?"

"No need to worry so much about your brother, Sam," Violet said. Sam's eyebrows climbed into his bangs at the mention of Dean being his brother. Violet shouldn't have known that. "He's fine. We asked Henry to fetch you back. We only wanted you."

Violet stroked Sam's cheek, and then turned to pick up something off the bedside table. "We've been searching for the right person. We needed the perfect person for Daisy. Would have preferred a woman, but you'll do fine, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes in spite of himself, _Great, another thing for Dean to harass me about. _"Daisy?" Sam croaked, his eyes roaming the small room looking for another inhabitant. There was no one else in the room.

"Sister," Violet explained. She turned back towards Sam, the metal glint of a pair of scissors in her left hand. "Would do anything for Daisy." Violet leaned close to Sam, her cloudy blue eyes searching his face. "But you understand, don't you, Sam?"

"What're you going to do?" Sam asked. He cursed the slight tremble in his voice. He was completely powerless to stop her. The cold metal of the scissors rested directly on his stomach.

"Just making it easier for Daisy, that's all," Violet replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Sam heard the material of his t-shirt being snipped away. He lifted his head, attempting to gain a better vantage point. Violet pressed the heel of her hand to his forehead, pushing it back to the pillow. A chill raced down his spine. "Stop," Sam insisted. "Please."

Violet stopped cutting his t-shirt. She tilted her head, frowning. "This really will be easier, Sam, if you don't fight it. You should be honored. Daisy is a most special person and you get to help us live."

"Help you live?" Sam asked. This was worse than he originally thought. Something about Violet was not only really wrong, she was crazy to boot.

Violet resumed cutting, her cold fingers chilled Sam's belly as she slowly made her way up his t-shirt. The last of the cotton material gave way and Sam's shirt fell open. Violet made short work of cutting away the sleeves and pulled the wet shirt away, tossing it into the garbage can. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at him appraisingly. With a nod, she stood and moved to the foot of the bed.

Once again Sam lifted his head, trying to focus on Violet's actions. The scissor cut into the wet denim, Violet's hand shaking from the effort. "Hey, hey, stop," Sam protested. His shirt was one thing, his jeans were quite another.

"They's wet," Violet responded matter-of-factly. "Can't abide by wet clothes. We might catch the death of pneumonia."

"It's okay," Sam assured her, wriggling against the restraints in a vain attempt to evade the scissors. "I'll be fine."

"Not worried about just you," Violet replied, pausing long enough to shake the scissors at Sam. "Daisy needs a healthy body."

Sam frowned, his brow crinkling. "Daisy, wha?"

Violet resumed cutting, she puffed, the air in her lungs escaping past her lips with a light squeaking sound. Violet's cyanotic lips parted as she struggled to draw in more air, but it only increased the volume and pitch of the squeaking.

Sam winced, inhaling sharply as the tip of the scissors cleared his waistband. Violet struggled to cut through the thick band with both hands. _Oh God, she's going to impale me with the damn scissors. _Violet's hands shook as she worked intently at cutting through the final inch of denim. He sucked in his stomach, hoping to keep the sharp scissors away from his unprotected skin.

Violet breathed in shallow gasps. "Are you okay?" Sam asked. Maybe distraction would work if nothing else.

"We're not okay," Violet rasped. "But, we will be." The fabric gave way. Violet straightened and heaved in great gulping breaths. Her face tightened in pain and she clutched at her chest.

"Violet?" Maybe if he could get her to stop, to take care of herself, he could buy enough time for Dean to get to him. It was obvious he wouldn't be able to free himself strapped to the bed like a frog awaiting dissection.

Violet pulled instinctively on the neck of her dress. "Too much. Too hard. Need to rest." Without another word, Violet turned and walked out. Sam heard her slowly limping down the hall and then nothing, save the ticking of an old, winding clock on the dresser.

Sam tugged again on the restraints, the rope biting into his wrists and ankles. They held fast. He took note of how he must look. Muddy, shirtless, jeans half cut off and tied to the bed. Sam sighed. Dean was going to have a field day with this.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Sam's gonna have a field day with this," Dean muttered under his breath. Dean Winchester, self-professed hunter extraordinaire, had allowed his baby brother to get snatched out from under his nose while he was squatting in the bushes.

It hadn't taken Dean long to put the facts together. The smashed window had taken Sam by surprise. Sam hadn't struggled, and he'd been dragged from the car, the long marks in the mud were smooth and unbroken. They told Dean in no uncertain terms that Sam had been unconscious, probably never even saw what hit him. The trail led from the Impala to a spot where a large rig had been parked, truck, most likely judging by the tire tracks.

The tire tracks led back in the direction they had come. "Sam, you'd better not be back at creepy Violet's house." Dean knew instinctively that was exactly where Sam was. Violet didn't appear strong enough to move someone as heavy as Sam, but she could be a shape-shifter or any number of supernatural beings that changed their appearance to lure in their prey. She hadn't struck him as the particularly bright type, but then, that could have been part of her cover. The only vibe he'd picked up on was creepy old lady, emphasis on creepy.

He kicked a layer of the sticky, Arkansas mud off his boots against a wheel of the Impala. "'Cause old lady or not, I'm gonna kick her ass for making me walk through this shit." Yeah, that was the reason. It had nothing to do with the fact that someone or something had shanghaied his little brother.

Dean crouched low and surveyed the damage to the car. In all actuality, it was relatively unscathed, just hopelessly stuck. He wouldn't be able to get the Impala back on all four wheels without a tow truck. Walking was not the ideal mode of transportation to get to Sam, but it appeared he didn't have a choice.

Gathering up supplies, Dean loaded a bag with the first aid kit, holy water, assorted ammunition and weapons. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and moved to close the trunk lid. At the last minute he added two bottled waters, food bars and dry clothes for both of them. Even though it had finally quit raining, he was soaked and chances were, so was Sam.

"This sucks," Dean groaned as he started walking. "This really, really sucks."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"This sucks," Sam groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. His head was spinning and now his wrists were a bloody mess. It didn't appear as if he would be getting himself out of his current predicament any time soon.

What exactly Violet had meant about Daisy needing a new body and Sam being the right fit had his mind whirling. If it was what had happened earlier in the Impala, then it certainly didn't feel like a perfect fit. He lifted his head to gain a better view of the stitches on his side. Not only was the wound red and puffy, but he had what appeared to be a burn mark from the wound, spreading across his chest, and ending over his left shoulder. "What the hell?" he whispered.

His head whipped to the right when he heard the distinctive, step and drag of Violet's approach. The door slowly creaked open and Violet hobbled inside. "We have to do this soon. Daisy's gettin' too tired to wait."

Sam's brow scrunched briefly. "What do you mean Daisy's getting too tired to wait? Wait for what?"

"For a new body. It's hard for her to keep both working." Violet began to light several candles scattered throughout the room. The stink of sulfur from the matches caused irrational fear to flare briefly before Sam squashed it.

"Both?" Sam's long fingers finally managed to reach one of the knots holding his wrists in place. He pulled at the rope, but it was useless. The knots were too tight.

Violet paused in her candle lighting, glancing over her shoulder at Sam. "Ours."

Sam shook his head. "I don't understand."

Violet sighed loudly, tromping over to Sam. "It's easier to show you. Daisy wants to see you anyway." Violet unsnapped the first two snaps of her dress.

"Ah, Violet," Sam said, pushing himself as far away from Violet as his bonds allowed. "I don't need to see."

"Daisy wants to see you," Violet repeated, unsnapping two more buttons.

"Daisy?" Sam's head pounded. Violet definitely qualified as crazy, but understanding didn't help Sam in the least.

Three more buttons and Violet pulled her dress to the side. Sam turned his head away, a blush climbing up his neck. "See, Daisy? He's a handsome, strong, virile young man," Violet said. Sam blushed deeper, but he couldn't resist a glance in Violet's direction.

Where Violet's right breast would be, a misshapen, partially formed, mostly bald head was fused to her chest. One bright blue, lidless eye roved to and fro, taking in Sam's appearance. A small, shriveled chest wall shared skin with Violet's side, and a skinny arm was stretched across Violet's chest, disappearing under her dress on the opposite side.

_Oh God…_

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Ah, God!" Dean lifted a heavy, mud-caked boot and a line of stringy mucous followed from the ground to his foot. "They're freaking everywhere." Frogs - small, mud-colored frogs littered the road and grasses, brought out by the swarms of insects and puddles of water the rain had churned up. The air was filled with a chorus of musical trills from singing frogs and the annoying 'wraaaah' of toads. Dean could barely take a step without squashing one. "Son of a bitch!"

He slid sideways on the frog-slicked road, managed to catch his balance only to step on another one and belly-flop into the mud. The landing jarred his entire body and Dean's head throbbed in protest. A particularly large bullfrog blew a 'boo-whop' in Dean's face. "That's just not right," Dean muttered.

He drew himself up onto his knees, looking out into the grass. He had avoided the marshy grass thus far, more concerned about snakes than frogs. However, now he wasn't so sure. He had no idea what was happening to Sam and it was taking far too long to traverse the eight miles they'd driven on foot.

Dean hung his head. There wasn't a choice. He pushed himself to his feet and picked his way to the tall, water-logged grass beside the road. A loud pop signaled the death of another frog when he took his next step. Dean's closed his eyes and took a deep breath. At least his footing had remained steady. "You know maybe I'm beginning to agree with Sam," Dean groused, opening his eyes. "Maybe we are cursed."

Dean adjusted his hold on the soiled duffel bag, slinging it higher over his shoulder and looping his other arm through the opposite handle. Another pop and Dean's foot slid sideways nearly toppling him. "In fact, weren't frogs one of the ten plagues of Egypt?" he muttered. Dean narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Or was that locusts?" He never had paid as much attention to Pastor Jim's sermons as he did Jim's lessons on hunting. He bet Sam would know though.

The uneven ground made for poor running conditions. Dean knew he risked the chance of injury from the hidden pitfalls in the grass, but he had to make up for lost time. Sam was hurt and who knew what Violet had planned. Somehow the little preview in front of her house did not set Dean's mind at ease. He didn't know how she'd done it, but he knew she was the one who had attacked Sam.

"Whatever you've got planned for Sam, it won't work," Dean vowed to the world at large. "I won't let it."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"It won't work," Sam said. His eyes flitted from Violet's cloudy blues to Daisy's one bright one. He didn't know which were harder to look at. "Daisy can't share my body the way she does with you."

"True, true," Violet nodded, pulling a hard back chair close to the bed. "But she can share it in spirit." The scissors appeared again in Sam's line of sight. "Just need to make things a bit easier."

Cool metal pressed on the hot flesh surrounding the stitched wound in his side. Taut skin pulled tighter and the first two stitches ripped out of his skin to make room for the scissors. Sam breathed through the pain as she cut through the remaining thread. He could feel the extra fluid of infection seeping from the injury as it opened and frowned in puzzlement. Dean had done a thorough job of cleaning it and it was too soon for the infection to have progressed this far.

Sam watched as Violet laid the scissors down on the dresser. She rubbed the top of Daisy's head affectionately. "Ready?" she asked.

A serious of guttural sounds was emitted from Daisy's one nasal passage. Although Daisy did not possess a mouth, hidden somewhere between she and Violet was a throat with some type of vocal chords. They weren't sounds that meant anything to Sam, but apparently Violet understood just fine. "Yes, it'll be fine."

Violet dropped her arms to her side, her face became slack and her eyes closed. A thin wisp of smoky white drifted away from Violet, coalescing in the shape of a woman on the far side of the bed. The gray mist continued to take on a refined shape until a slightly younger version of Violet clearly stood beside him.

Sam whipped his head around to Violet's body, now nearly gray in color, she appeared lifeless. Daisy's one eye flicked from Violet's spirit to Sam's face. She produced a high-pitched warble, and then her eye stopped moving. White hot fire seared his side. Sam writhed on the bed, biting hard on the inside of his lip to keep from shouting. Heat burned across his chest. Fear seeped into his mind.

_Dean sat in the driver's seat slumped over the steering wheel, his face white, unconscious. "Dean?" Sam could barely move, his entire body sore from the crash. He reached out to feel for a pulse on his brother's neck, slow, steady, alive. "Dean?"_

"_Sam?"_

Fingers dug into his collar bone, lighting his neck and shoulder on fire. Crackles of agony radiated out in small bursts, traveling upwards and pulsing in his eye.

_Violet struggled for air, her chest heaving, her heart pumping madly and without its normal steady rhythm. The valiant muscle chugged and sputtered in painful, gasping spurts. "Sister!" Sister was dying. "Sister, my life, myself. Don't die!"_

Pain crawled from the base of Sam's skull, over his head, settling into his eyes. The wound in his side cried out for relief from the heat and ripping sensations. Sam arched off the bed, his muscles locked.

_Dean's face swam into focus, the line of his jaw determined, his eyes held the shine of reluctance. "Sam, I have to go."_

Emotional pain over-powered the physical agony. Sam's rigid body convulsed as half-formed sobs wracked his chest. Sweat poured off his forehead, curling the long hair around the nape of his neck. He struggled to draw in enough air.

"_Violet, don't go!" A wave of despair crashed over her. "Sister!" Thin, white tendrils drifted through the air, hovering over her. The tendrils swirled and danced until Violet's face floated above the bed. "Don't leave me!"_

The ropes around Sam's wrists and legs pulled tight when he attempted to curl in on himself. Too much, it was all too much. His nerve-endings were on fire, he trembled from the exertion. His sister was gone. Tears squeezed out past tightly closed lids. No, brother. _Dean._

_Dean's bloody face rested on the steering wheel. "Sam, I have to go." _

_Violet's cloudy form reached out a hand. "Don't cry, it'll be okay."_

_Sam heard a thud outside the car. "Dean?" Crunching glass and darkness answered._

"_Stay, please. Can't live without sister." Already it was so hard to breathe. Keeping both hearts pumping, all three lungs expanding, it hurt. "It hurts." Don't go, please._

"Don't go!" The strangled cry was forced from Sam's lips. "Please," he whispered. Through a red haze Sam saw a shadowed form fill the doorway.

"Let him go." The tone was hard, rough. A loud shot sounded and echoed about the small room. A blinding rush of icy fire coursed through his veins and then, just as abruptly as it began, it stopped. Sam collapsed to the bed, panting shallowly. His eyes darted about the room, unable to focus on any one thing.

"Don't go," Sam pleaded, only vaguely aware that he'd spoken at all.

"I'm right here, Sammy," the same voice, but gentler now.

"Dean?" Sam focused bleary eyes on the face hovering over his.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me." Sam's chin was tilted upwards, supported by warm fingers. He drew in deep breaths, concentrating on bringing the world into focus. No easy feat as adrenaline coursed through his blood, coloring his perception.

Sam could see his brother, it was Dean under all the mud. That had to mean Dean was really here and that he wasn't imagining it. "Dean?" Dean didn't spare a glance in his direction. He kept his eyes trained on Violet, but he shifted closer until Sam could touch the muddy denim with blood-starved fingers.

A flash of color on Sam's right and Dean's arm shot out, the Colt aimed unwaveringly at the blur of yellow. Dean's jaw muscles jumped, his eyes hardened. "Stay away from my brother."

This was the side of his big brother that caused evil to quake in its boots. Dean was a true hunter, strong, protective, and lethal, but never without provocation or purpose. Sam had been on the wrong side of Dean's anger before, his practical jokes or his irritation, but he'd never had the kind of hot fury that burned in Dean's eyes directed at him – only for him or their dad.

Loud buzzing filled his ears and Sam almost missed Dean's next words. "Move over there." Dean gestured to the side with one hand, the gun didn't waver from its aim. Dean moved away, Sam's fingers falling helplessly from their grip. Dean now stood between Sam and Violet. "All the way over there."

Sam turned his head from Dean to watch Violet back up into the hardback chair and take a seat. She looked exhausted. Her skin was gray, she breathed heavily and sweat poured off her wrinkled face. Sam wondered if he looked half as bad.

Dean dropped the duffel onto the bed. Without taking his eyes off Violet, he rummaged through the bag, pulling out a length of rope. He left Sam's side and made quick work of tying Violet to the chair. A circle of salt around her chair and the bed finished the job. For the first time since he had entered the room, Dean made eye contact with Sam and nodded.

Sam swallowed hard and nodded back as Dean started to cut him loose. He knew Dean was okay, that he was standing here in front of him, but the emotions swirling around inside of him were real and he was having a hard time shaking them. One hand free, he grabbed the hem of Dean's wet, soiled t-shirt. Dean's concerned green eyes met his. "It's okay, Sammy, I got ya."

Sam nodded, that much he was always sure of. "Are you okay?" Sam asked, his voice shaky. Both hands free, Sam pushed himself onto his elbows to watch as Dean cut the ropes around his ankles. Sam's arms trembled from the effort. He hoped Dean didn't notice.

"Me?" Dean asked, surprise lacing his tone. "I'm muddy, covered in frog slime, and I had to walk close to eight friggin' miles to get here." The words came out edged by frustration. "I'm pissed as hell, Sam, but I'm fine."

Dean scowled, cutting through the last of the ropes. Sam scrambled to a sitting position, his back resting against the iron frame of the bed. "Are you okay?" Dean asked, his previous anger quickly fading to be replaced by genuine concern.

"I'm fine," Sam replied, the lie slipping past his lips with practiced ease. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain Dean could hear it from where he stood. A fact that seemed to be confirmed when Dean gave him a look of disbelief.

"You're bleeding, the stitches are blown." Dean opened the med-kit and pulled out a large wad of gauze.

"Cut," Sam corrected, wishing he hadn't. A look of anger returned, burning briefly across Dean's face. "Dean, Violet is dead." He choked back a sob of grief that wasn't his own.

Dean looked over his shoulder at Violet, then turned back to Sam. "I shot her spirit when I came in. How the hell?"

"Daisy," Sam supplied. He grunted when Dean pressed the gauze to his side. His muscles pulsated in protest further aggravating the injury.

"You have two supernatural dead girls after you?" Dean shook his head. "Why am I not surprised? I told you, Sammy, ghosts are attracted to your shining. So, care to tell me what happened to your shirt and why your jeans are half cut off?"

"No." Sam blushed. Dean didn't need any more ammunition to use against him. He made eye contact with Dean. "Daisy is Violet's sister, her twin. Well, sort of anyway."

"How do you have a sort of twin?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes. Sam shivered, suddenly cold in the humid room. Dean wrapped a hand around Sam's arm, carefully avoiding the damaged wrists. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Sam felt the blood rush from his head. Sometimes Dean's guesses were scarily accurate even in jest. He wasn't so sure he was okay. Dean raised both eyebrows and jerked his head once in Sam's direction, a very clear, if silent, signal to talk. He ignored the second question, to answer the first. "Daisy and Violet are conjoined twins. Well, more like Daisy is a parasitic twin. She doesn't have higher reasoning skills, but…" He paused, remembered the onslaught of primitive emotions from Daisy that he hadn't quite shaken from his mind. "She's still capable of a great deal of emotion."

Dean pressed another gauze pad on top of the first and taped it down. "You've, uh, seen her?"

"Yeah," Sam said. He pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose in an involuntary response to the memory. "Anyway, Violet died and Daisy is desperate to keep Violet here. Violet on the other hand, is trying to find a new body for Daisy so she can live. The trouble is, Violet's body is too big for Daisy's smaller, weaker organs to sustain for the long haul."

"So, Violet here uses her spirit to help Daisy try out a new body?" Dean's frown muted into an angry, hard line. "Is that supposed to be you?"

Sam didn't answer. He would do anything for Dean. It was hard to begrudge Violet for feeling the same way. Daisy's fear, her grief, ran rampant through his mind and Sam swallowed back another sob. Daisy's emotions were nearly overpowering, still coursing through him and it was taking a toll. His eyes flicked to Dean, reassuring himself that his brother was truly here, alive, that Dean wasn't in danger. He raised a shaky hand, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. He was so tired.

"Sam, are you supposed to be Daisy's new body?" Dean reiterated, his voice hard.

"Yes, he is." The voice in the doorway snapped both brothers' heads in that direction. An elderly man held a shot gun, pointing it at Sam. "It isn't fair that just because Miss Violet is sick, that Daisy has to die too."

"Biologically, Daisy is a part of Violet. They live and die together," Sam explained. "Daisy never could have lived at all without Violet." The shot gun shook, but never dipped low enough for either Winchester to make a move for it. The revolver sat within reach of Dean's hand. Sam saw Dean's fingers twitch in its direction. Sooner or later, Dean would grab the Colt and defend them both if Henry didn't stand down.

"Put the gun down," Dean commanded. He moved fractionally so more of his body was between Henry and Sam. "This is the way it should be."

"It ain't up to you," Henry spat. His finger tightened on the trigger. Dean put a hand on his Colt in response. "It ain't like you're gonna lose your brother. Daisy will just be there too."

"It didn't work with the others," Dean countered. "And I think Sam's proof it isn't going to work with him either. Look at him. She almost killed him."

Sam scrunched his face and tilted his head to get a better look at Dean's face. "That's not exactly true." As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam wished he could pull them back. He didn't seem to be in control of his emotions or his mouth at the moment.

"It is true, Sam." Dean's voice spoke of conviction. "Your skin was almost gray when I got here, you were barely breathing and that wound on your side was, is, bleeding a lot. Even with your…" Dean paused, obviously choosing his next words carefully. "Special abilities, you can't be fused with another soul."

Henry made a move towards Violet and Dean's weapon snapped up at the ready. "Stay away from her."

Henry scowled, anger visible in every line. "Don't be such a hypocrite. You want to save your brother. All Violet wants is the same thing for her sister." Henry edged closer to the chair.

"I will shoot you where you stand," Dean said. Fear replaced anger in Henry's eyes. "I won't miss."

Henry stopped moving. "Looks like we have us a Mexican standoff."

"Not really," Dean replied, self-assurance in his tone, the squared shoulders, and the steady hand on the gun. "I'm faster than you. You'll never even get off a shot."

Henry looked panicked. His eyes darted from Sam, to Dean, to the Colt. He slowly set the shot gun on the floor. "Now what?"

"Now, we wait." Dean said, moving just close enough to Sam that he could reach out and touch the hem of Dean's soaked t-shirt if he wanted to.

Sam knotted his brow in confusion. _Wait for what?_

_TBC_

…………………………………………………………..**Supernatural**…………………………………………………………

AN: Thanks again to Wysawyg, Carocali, Muffy, and S.C. for the feedback!

As promised, here are spnMom's story prompts:

She actually had several things she would like to see, but these are the ones that led to this story.

I would take a story of any kind, but prefer Hurt!Sam/Protective!Dean.

I just love any situation (practically) where an adult Sam is tied up and preferably without his shirt :-)

_Okay, I had a moment of 'How the heck am I going to work that into a story?' until my friend Charlie Girl 79 kindly pointed out that I don't seem to have a problem with it. She ticked off every story where either one or the other of the boys end up without shirts, pants, etc – um…an embarrassing amount actually. So, this wasn't a problem after all. LOL One down._

She didn't want: Sam depicted as submissive or whiny.

_So, this one was the easy. Excellent. Two down._

She also didn't want: Dean depicted as bossy or mean. I much prefer the over protective Dean that is mad or scared because Sam has disappeared again.

_Phew. This one was easy too! Three down._

Sam targeted by a Supernatural being because of his shining -- or other special vibes (I love Sam as a ghost magnet).

_Yep, that one would be easy enough to figure out. Whew. Four down._

Sam captured by (vampires, hunters, psycho human). Like the Benders episode, sometimes humans are the scariest to me. Hunters tracking him down because of Gordon spreading the word is a favorite.

_Hmm, that's the prompt that really got me thinking. I wanted to have Sam in danger because of his abilities, but it didn't necessarily need it to be a supernatural being. It was too bad I couldn't combine the two somehow, but that would get too cumbersome and really, how many bad guys could you have before it became too much? Three days later – I had Violet…and the as yet unnamed Daisy. So you see, spnMom? This story is really all your fault. You should know I can't be trusted with a plot bunny. I've confessed to that fact many a time. LOL. And – we're there!_

**In all seriousness, thank you to spnMom for her story prompts and her donation to the auction!**


	3. Ashes, Ashes

**Bound for Life**

**Disclaimer: **The show, the boys and the concept belong to Kripke and the CW. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By Carocali, who offered some really great suggestions that made me think and rethink (and rewrite) several areas! And Muffy Morrigan, who caught all my meandering, compound sentences and occasional odd word choices (not to mention the creative punctuation)! :)

_I played after they beta'd so any and all remaining errors are mine and mine alone._

**Dedicated: **To spnMom for her kind donation to the auction.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNNSNSN

_Henry made a move towards Violet and Dean's weapon snapped up at the ready. "Stay away from her."_

_Henry scowled, anger visible in every line. "Don't be such a hypocrite. You want to save your brother. All Violet wants is the same thing for her sister." Henry edged closer to the chair._

"_I will shoot you where you stand," Dean said. Fear replaced anger in Henry's eyes. "I won't miss." _

_Henry stopped moving. "Looks like we have us a Mexican standoff."_

"_Not really," Dean replied, self-assurance in his tone, the squared shoulders, and the steady hand on the gun. "I'm faster than you. You'll never even get off a shot."_

_Henry looked panicked. His eyes darted from Sam, to Dean, to the Colt. He slowly set the shot gun on the floor. "Now what?"_

"_Now, we wait."_

……………………………………………………………..**Ashes, Ashes**……………………………………………………

Henry scowled darkly at the eldest Winchester. "What do ya mean, we wait?"

"You, need to just shut up and sit down right there," Dean snapped, nodding to a spot on the floor. "You're the one who snuck up on Sam and broke the car window, aren't you? To do what, bring him back here for Nurse Ratchet to play lobotomy with my brother's soul?"

"Dean." Dean didn't need to look at Sam to know he was giving him a reproachful 'Don't be too hard on him' look. He could hear it in his voice.

"Sam, don't." Dean spared a glance at Sam. He didn't like what he saw, the pale, sweaty face, the bloody wound, the abrasions on his wrists, Sam looked like death on a cracker. He turned to glare at Henry. "Sit down," he barked.

Dean took no small amount of satisfaction in the fear that glimmered in Henry's eyes, accentuated by the lines on his weathered face. He should be afraid. The man had hurt two things that belonged to Dean. "I won't be able to get off the floor, if I sit down," Henry protested, though his heart didn't sound in it.

"The problem with that being?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrow, daring the older man to continue.

"Didn't say there was one, just a fact." Henry gently lowered himself to the wood floor, but the last twelve inches ended up as more of a free-fall than anything else. "Oof."

Dean retrieved Henry's discarded shot gun, placing it on the bed by Sam's feet. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied, his voice strained.

Dean pursed his lips. "You know, you're not that good a liar, Sam." Sam tossed him a look of little brother disgust and Dean smirked. He'd hit the mark. "How's your head?"

Sam scrunched his face. "Hurts," he admitted.

Dean nodded at the honest answer. He scooted farther up the bed, taking Sam's head in his hands. He easily found two knots under the brown strands. There was a small one on the right side, probably from the crash and a goose-egg farther back on the same side, no doubt from Henry. Sam hissed when Dean's fingers probed the large bump.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized. His fingers came away clean so at least Sam didn't have a head wound. Grabbing a cooling pack from the med-kit, Dean activated the crystals and handed it to Sam.

Sam pressed the pack to his head, wincing as the cold hit the large knot. "What're you planning?"

"Let's get you squared away first, then we'll worry about Daisy and Violet," Dean suggested. He rifled through the first aid kit for the disinfectant, anti-bacterial ointment and gauze. Sam didn't utter a sound when Dean cleaned the abrasions on his wrists, but he felt Sam's eyes watching him the entire time. A few times around Sam's wrists with the gauze, some tape and the job was done.

"You have to do something about Violet," Henry interrupted. "She's having trouble breathing."

Dean rolled his eyes. Telling Henry that Violet was dead wouldn't go over well. "There's nothing I can do to change that." It was the truth, but he doubted it would go over any better.

"Untie her." Henry made a motion to stand up. "If she rests, she'll feel better."

"Sit down!" Dean had lost all patience for the old man. Henry settled back to the floor with a groan, muttering something about Dean's questionable parentage. Dean focused his attention on his brother.

Sam's eyes were wide, his chest heaving. "Dean, something's not right."

"I know, Sammy." Dean set the first aid kit and Henry's shot gun down on the far side of the bed, mindful of the salt ring.

"You do?" Sam gripped the hem of Dean's shirt with one hand, a remnant of a childhood gesture.

"Yeah, I do." Dean moved closer to Sam, resting a hand on his little brother's shoulder, grounding him. "Remember? I know you."

Sam's face scrunched in obvious confusion. His hand knotted in Dean's shirt as his breathing accelerated. "I, I can't…you…"

"Sam, listen to me," Dean said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He drew in a breath of relief when Sam responded by looking at him. "I think there's enough of Daisy left with Violet to keep her body running, but not for long."

"I told you that," Sam puffed. His eyes darted over to Violet and back to Dean, the hazels shining with emotion.

Dean nodded. "I know, but I think there's also enough of Daisy's spirit left with you, that she's aware she can't help her sister. That she's affecting you."

Sam shook his head. "No, no, that's not it. You're in danger."

"No, I'm not." Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder lightly. "You gotta trust me here, Sam."

Sam visibly relaxed, his bare back coming to rest on the slats of the head board. Some of the fear left Sam's eyes and his breathing slowed. "You know I do."

Dean broke into a wide grin, his lips curling of their own accord. "Good answer, Sam." Sam nodded in acknowledgement, his movements slower than normal. "You just need to tough it out a little longer."

He caught movement out of his eye as Henry slid towards Violet. He obviously couldn't trust Henry not to do something stupid when things went downhill and they were about to go downhill, very fast. Without a word, Dean took the rope he'd cut off Sam, stomped over to Henry and pulled him back to his original spot. He made short work of tying Henry, hand and foot.

"You're keeping me hostage, that's a felony!" Henry shouted as Dean strode back to the bed.

Dean balled his fists and gritted his teeth. "Unlike kidnapping." Silence answered and Dean continued to the bed thinking the exchange was finished.

"At least I ain't a murderer," Henry muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dean sat down next to Sam, not bothering with a retort. Some things couldn't be explained to regular people. They'd refuse to understand to keep their world in balance. It wasn't worth the effort and yet the words stung a little. Dean made eye contact with his brother, Sam's hazels reflecting blue for a moment. _Oh God, Sam. _"I'm going to take a look at your side."

"It's fine." Sam placed a hand protectively over the gauze pads. Violet made a wheezing sound and Sam's head whipped around. "We should help her."

"She's dead, Sam," Dean reminded him. "You said so yourself. What do you want me to do? Shoot her with rock salt and chase the spirit out?"

"Stop," Sam protested. He bent over his arm that was pressed to his chest, taking in great gulps of air. "Don't."

"What? Don't tell me you feel sorry for her, Sam," Dean said, goading Violet. "She was going to use you as her very own soul storage unit."

Sam's sweat-slicked hair stuck to his face, curling around his neck. Blood seeped through his fingers, the gauze no longer enough to staunch the flow. Dean swallowed hard, he hated doing this to his brother, but he didn't really have a choice. "Just stop," Sam whispered.

"Do you think she even cared about her sister?" Dean asked, the words directed at Sam, the message at Violet. "If she did, she would have moved on, let nature take its course, not tried to find her a new body, force her to live inside a stranger."

"It's not like that," Sam corrected, his voice soft. The fingers on Sam's free hand clenched, his body rocked forward obscuring more of his face from Dean.

"What's it like then?" Dean scooted closer to Sam, leaning over his brother and placing a hand on the bed. He dipped his head and looked Sam in the eyes. "Tell me, Sam."

"Daisy shouldn't have to die," Sam said. He met Dean's eyes, tears filling the hazel.

"Think, Sam, does that sound like you?" Dean waited as Sam filtered through his emotions. "Ten minutes ago you told me Daisy never could have lived at all without Violet."

Dean watched as the facts clicked into place for his brother and realization dawned in Sam's eyes. Sam had always been a quick study. "What do you know about Daisy?" Henry piped up from his position on the floor. Both Winchester brothers shot him a dangerous glare. Dean turned back to Sam.

"I don't need you to tell me what I said," Sam growled, his tone going from wounded to angry in a span of seconds. Sam had figured it out. "I'm not a kid anymore, you don't get to boss me around."

"Someone has to," Dean said, his voice rising. "You let an eighty-year-old man get the drop on you."

"Hey!" Henry protested from his spot on the floor.

"Shut up!" the Winchesters commanded in unison.

"Ssstop," Violet hissed through barely parted, cyanotic lips. She drew in a sharp, wheezing breath. "Daisy."

Sam jerked once, his head hitting the wall behind him. "Dean." Sam pawed at the gauze pad on his side. The tight lines of his face were a clear indicator that Sam was in pain.

"Sam," Dean gripped Sam's shoulders and a look of understanding flashed between them. "Just hang in there." Sam nodded. Dean could see the taut muscles of his neck and clenched jaw as Sam fought to remain in control. Dean's plan had worked. Unfortunately there wasn't anything he could do to make it easier for Sam.

"Violet," Sam whispered, his eyes darting over to the old woman in the chair. "Sister." Sam's entire body trembled, the muscles quivering. He moaned behind clenched teeth.

"Daisy." It was almost more a small puff of expelled air than a word, and it was Violet's last. A white mist rose from the body, followed shortly by a second, much smaller, vapor. The swirling cloud settled into its former human shape, trapped within the circle of salt. The spirit's face scowled in anger. "Sister," it hissed, the inhuman sound echoing about the room.

"What the hell?" Henry scooted backwards, sliding along the floor until his back hit the wall. "Violet?"

The spirit turned its head to look in Henry's direction, then turned back to the Winchesters. "Sister."

"Violet," Sam panted. He tore the gauze pad free, blood seeping sluggishly from the wound. The damaged flesh pulsated in time with Sam's erratic breathing. "Sister." The word sounded foreign on Sam's lips, but the grief, the despair sounded genuine to Dean's ears.

He squeezed Sam's shoulders gently, earning a small smile of gratitude from Sam. "Hang in there," Dean repeated. This time there was no understanding nod from his little brother, recognition quickly fading from Sam's eyes.

"Daisy," the guttural sound robbed the voice of its humanity. The spirit drifted apart, the tendrils swirling inside the salt ring only to reform into Violet's tight face.

"Violet," Sam's voice a mere whisper. He arched off the bed, a muffled scream sounding behind closed lips. A tendril of white mist broke free from the wound, drifting slowly towards the edge of the salt ring around the bed. Sam collapsed back to the bed, his eyes rolling up into his head.

Dean moved quickly, grabbing the holy water he doused the hole on Sam's side. It sizzled and foamed as the water worked to purge the last vestiges of supernatural contaminant from Sam's body. The actions roused his brother and Dean placed a hand on Sam's chest. "Sammy, lie still. It worked."

Sam didn't acknowledge his words, but he did stop moving, lying quietly while Dean poured more holy water on the wound. The mist inside the salt ring drifted to Sam, circling slowly around him, then returning to the spot nearest Violet's spirit. _The damn thing's out of Sam, now what?_

"Remind me again why all your plans seem to involve pissing off the angry spirits?" Sam asked. His words were soft, but his voice held strength that contradicted the air of exhaustion that surrounded him. Dean opened his mouth to retort when Sam interrupted. "Dean, look," Sam said, nodding in Violet's direction.

Dean reluctantly tore his attention from the potentially hostile spirit trapped in their salt circle to the other salt ring directly across from them. Violet's body, no longer kept viable by Daisy, was quickly losing any sign of life. In fact, it appeared to be rapidly decomposing, making up for the lost weeks of enforced vigor.

Violet's belly swelled, her face smoothed as the muscles relaxed. Skin that was only moments before blue from lack of oxygen, turned ghostly white, then started turning green. Violet's mouth gaped open, her eyes clouding over completely until only the barest hint of a blue ring remained. "Oh God, Violet," Henry moaned.

The partial spirit solidified into a lop-sided head with one eye that glared angrily at Dean. "We have to salt and burn the body," Sam said, with a gasping breath.

"Sam, she's…" Dean paused and grimaced. "Juicy." Violet's bloated stomach leaked fluid, staining her floral dress. The stench wafted through the humid air, Dean wrinkled his nose.

"We've done it before." Sam shivered in the warm air.

It was true, they had. However, Sam had been able to help him carry the body. This time he'd be carrying the decomposing Violet all by himself. Add to that the amount of fuel it took to burn something wet and every stick of lumber outside had to be saturated right now.

"I can help," Sam said, interrupting Dean's thoughts.

"I don't think so." To prove his point Dean leaned forward and made a show of examining the injury on Sam's side. "You're still leaking yourself."

"Says the guy with the concussion," Sam shot back.

Dean winced, he'd been kind of hoping Sam had forgotten about that. "Hello, pot. This is the kettle. You're black."

Sam puffed a laugh, then frowned, his face growing thoughtful.

"Sam, what?" Dean knew the look. Sam was on to something.

Sam ignored him, peering over his shoulder to Henry. "Do you have an old smokehouse?"

Henry snapped his attention away from the decomposing Violet to Sam, but the horrified expression remained intact. "Come again?"

"A smokehouse?" Dean interrupted.

"Many old farmsteads had smokehouses to preserve meat back before refrigeration. Some of them are still standing, even working," Sam explained. "A remote place like this, it's possible."

Dean shook his head, smiling. "Sammy, you need help."

"We've got an old smokehouse out back," Henry said. "And it still works. We use it every fall." Henry's face wrinkled with regret. "Look, I gotta admit, I wanted to help Daisy and Violet, but I never realized…I mean…" He looked over towards the decaying Violet. "It's obviously too late anyway and their ghosts don't seem none to happy about that."

As if on cue, Daisy's partial spirit flew apart, whisking about the salt ring and reforming to face Violet. Sam pressed a hand to his side, groaning as he pushed himself off the bed. "The smokehouse should work," Sam said, directing his comment to Dean. "Let's do it."

Dean grabbed Sam's arm, more intent on helping him out of the salt circle than protesting Sam helping move Violet. The hard truth was if Sam was up to it, he probably needed his help, although, Henry had to be stronger than he looked if he'd moved an unconscious Sam. "Living room first," Dean said. He didn't want Sam anywhere near the spirits.

"We can't leave him here," Sam said, with a tired head nod in Henry's direction.

Dean placed the first aid kit in the duffel, slinging it over his shoulder. "Fine, I'll cut him loose."

"His name, is Henry." Henry no longer glared at the Winchesters. His eyes flitted from Violet's spirits to Daisy's. "And he's sorry he was an idiot."

"You didn't know," Sam said, his hazel eyes soft with forgiveness.

"Thanks."

Dean shot a glare towards Henry that withered his look of relief back to trepidation. Satisfied Henry was aware of his true situation, Dean turned his attention back to his brother. "Come on, Sam, let's get out of this room."

"Yeah." Sam stood up on shaky legs and made a hasty grab for his jeans when they started to slide off. He dipped his head in embarrassment. "My jeans aren't exactly in traveling shape."

"I packed you a spare," Dean said with a smile. "'Cause I'm an awesome big brother." Sam tossed him a look of gratitude, tightening his grip on the destroyed denim. They stepped carefully over the salt ring and slowly walked towards Henry. Dean kept one hand inconspicuously outstretched towards Sam in case he faltered.

Sam leaned against the door jamb, pointing to Henry. Dean rolled his eyes, but bent low, his head near Henry's and cut him loose. "You try anything, anything at all and you'll regret it," Dean whispered harshly. Henry nodded as Dean stood up. "Good, just so long as we understand each other."

Dean hooked an arm under Henry's, hoisting him to his feet with one solid motion. "You got it?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Henry took off his cap, smoothed back his sweaty hair and fit the cap snuggly back on his head. "Just give me a minute to find my legs."

"We'll be out in the living room," Dean said, grasping Sam's arm and prodding him into the hallway.

Sam staggered slightly at the motion. "You trust him in there with them alone?"

Dean looked back into the room at the shell-shocked Henry. His eyes were wide, taking in the two spirits in front of him. "Yeah, I do," he said, steering Sam into the hallway.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Henry walked cautiously towards the salt rings on the floor. He wasn't sure what had happened, only that somehow Daisy and Violet had hurt the boy. Whatever they had been planning, it wouldn't have been as simple as Daisy living out her years quietly inside of Sam. "Violet," Henry said, sorrowfully. "What happened?" He raised one hand out tentatively towards the woman-mist in front of him.

Violet's spirit scowled angrily, her face twisted in anger. "You! You let them kill Daisy."

"I didn't," Henry protested, his hand dropping to his side. "I tried to stop them, to help Daisy."

"You did this," Violet spat. "You don't love us. You _killed _Daisy!"

"Violet, I love you girls," Henry said, a tear slipping down his grizzled face, following the deep lines to his chin. It clung to his whiskers before dripping onto his shirt. "You know that."

"No!" Violet's spirit flew apart, the tendrils swirling angrily inside the salt circle. The temperature in the room dropped and Henry shivered.

"Oh God," Henry whispered, cradling his head in his hands. "What have I done?"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The dark hallway opened up into the living room. Bright sunlight cast prisms of rainbow color through the cut glass pattern on the windows. "At least it's stopped raining," Sam remarked. Dean's lips pursed and his nose wrinkled in a sour look. "What? It'll make it easier for us to carry Violet's body out the smokehouse."

Dean lightly pushed Sam into the wooden rocking chair. "We'll see," he said. It only took a minute to settle down on the ottoman next to Sam, the first aid kit spread on his lap. He leaned forward, flashlight in hand and shone it on Sam's injured side. "It's smaller."

"Yeah?" Sam twisted for a better look. "It is smaller, less red too."

"Still needs stitches though," Dean remarked. "I'm going to use more holy water and then stitch it."

"It could wait until after we move Violet," Sam said. "We need to burn the body so their spirits can rest."

"And not cause any more damage," Dean grumbled. "They'll be fine in there for a few minutes." The holy water didn't foam or hiss when Dean poured it on the wound. It was a good sign, although the jagged edges of torn skin would not make stitching the injury easy. He'd have to use more stitches to do the same job. Luckily, the wound really was smaller than before without Daisy's interference. "It looks like it's going to take a few more stitches this time, Sam."

He heard Sam's half muttered protest as he eased the prepped needle into Sam's skin. To his credit, Sam didn't utter a sound, but Dean could see his lips moving. "What're you doing?" he asked.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean. "You have your way of coping, I have mine."

Dean nodded and Sam closed his eyes again. As Dean made another stitch he heard Sam reciting something in Latin. "What is that?" he asked.

"_Miranda v. Arizona_," Sam supplied, his eyes flicking momentarily towards Dean.

"In Latin?" Dean made a third stitch, a smile tugging the corners of his lips.

Sam offered a half smile, mingled with sadness in return. "So I could practice both at the same time."

Dean nodded, not trusting his own response. Fighting off spirits that were attacking his brother was a piece of cake compared to navigating the emotional mine-field surrounding Stanford, their father and Jess. Time had proven he hadn't completely forgotten how to speak Sammy, he was just rusty. "All done," he said, taping on a fresh gauze pad over the stitched wound.

"Thanks." Sam straightened in the chair, his color better than it had been in the bedroom. "So, about those jeans?"

"Duffel bag," Dean said, nodding to the bag on the floor. He reached down, pulled out Sam's shirt and tossed it at his brother. "Start with this. I'm going to go check on Henry."

"Good idea."

Dean stowed the first aid kit and headed for the bedroom. Henry should have been out by now. He found the older man standing between both trapped spirits, a look of disbelief etched in the fine lines around his mouth and his wide eyed stare. "Violet, you and Daisy need to leave. It's time for you to go to your mama and papa."

Violet's spirit glared angrily at Henry. "You let them destroy us."

"No, Violet, you and Daisy…"

"Were already dead," Dean interrupted. "Don't try to reason with her, Henry. That's not the Violet you knew."

Henry gazed up into Violet's face, then back to Dean. "I don't understand."

"Spirits that don't move on, they get angry, vengeful." Dean moved to stand between Henry and the spirit. "That's why we need to salt and burn her body, to help Violet and Daisy move on."

Indecision colored Henry's movements as he took a step closer to Violet, then back towards Dean. "I want to help," he said finally. "I need to fix this."

Dean nodded. "Think you can help me move Violet's body?" He stepped around Henry to the bed, pulling off the patchwork quilt. "Careful of the salt lines. They're the only things keeping the spirits contained right now. Disturb the salt and things are going to get hairy."

"Got it," Henry replied. He started to step over the salt ring.

"Henry, don't!" Dean shouted.

"What?" Henry's foot halted mid-air. "I ain't touching the salt."

"No, but you're about to stand in the salt ring _with _an angry spirit to try to move her body." Dean ran a hand through his short hair, scrubbing it down his face. "Probably not your best move."

"Oh." Henry looked helplessly from Violet to Dean, flapping his arms. "Now what?"

Dean wasn't exactly sure how to answer. Shooting Violet with rock salt would get her spirit out of the way long enough to move her body, but it would probably free her spirit from the confines of the salt ring as well. "You distract her, I'll grab her body."

Henry narrowed his eyes appraising Dean. "You seem to know a lot about this kind of stuff."

"It's kind of what we do," Dean replied. He stepped closer to the salt ring and pointed over to Daisy's spirit. "Talk to them, keep 'em busy."

"Okay, yeah sure." Henry moved between the two sisters. "Daisy, you need to understand that Violet couldn't stay." Daisy's spirit couldn't talk any more than her physical self could, but her spirit swirled in response to Henry's words. "And Violet, Daisy wouldn't have been happy in that boy. You can't think she would have been, not really."

"Sister," the guttural voice grated. "Daisy."

Dean wrapped Violet's body in the quilt, tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and stepped out of the salt ring. Mission accomplished. "Henry, let's go." Dean quirked his head in the direction of the door, stumbling in that general direction.

Violet's body was not only heavy, it stank. Dean much preferred the long dead, mostly skeletal remains he and Sam normally dealt with. The distance from the bedroom to the living room seemed three times longer on the return trip. He breathed a sigh of relief when he deposited Violet on the rug in front of the hearth in the living room.

He put a hand on his back, straightening to his full height. Sam's distinctive chuckle reached his ears and he spun around to glare at his little brother. The grin dropped off Sam's face, the dimples disappearing. He gave Dean a questioning look as if suggesting he hadn't laughed and was innocent of Dean's unspoken accusation.

"Henry and I have this one, Sam." His head was pounding, his vision still not great, but he knew he was better off than his death-warmed-over little brother.

"Dean," Sam said, managing to turn Dean's name into a protest.

"Sam, it's no big deal. I got her out here by myself. Henry can help me get her to the smokehouse and besides he knows where it is." Dean looked pointedly at Sam's cut jeans and sock clad feet. At least Sam had managed to get the shirt on. Sam averted his gaze, giving Dean his answer. "Sam, just wait here, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Sam said. "How's your head?"

"Good enough." Dean ignored Sam's furrowed brow and pinched lips, pretending he didn't see his little brother's frustration at his response. He rolled Violet to the side and slid a length of rope under her, wrapping her body several times. "Henry! Get in here and bring more rope!" He winced, shouting was a bad idea.

"Hold your horses!" Henry shouted from the back room. A shuffling sound preceded Henry's appearance in the doorway. "My feet fell asleep sitting on the floor," he complained, tossing the rope to Dean. He narrowed his eyes in Sam's direction. "You don't look so good."

Sam huffed. "Thanks."

"That's why he's," Dean said, nodding in Sam's direction. "Not helping carry Violet's body out to the smokehouse. It's just you and me." Henry opened his mouth to protest. "She can't weigh much more than Sam and you carried him by yourself."

Henry's jaw clamped shut and he nodded. "Guess you got me there."

Dean looked up from tying the last knot around Violet's body. "Glad you see it my way," Dean said, arching an eyebrow, a smirk spreading slowly across his face. "Let's get this over with." He motioned for Henry to take Violet's feet. "On three?"

"Yep. One, two, three." Both men groaned. "My back," Henry groused.

"Suck it up, Henry," Dean gritted out, his head pounding out a rhythm. "Next time, don't play with dead girls and you won't have to clean up afterwards."

Henry grimaced at Dean's words. "Well, aren't you a charmer?"

Sam smothered another chuckle. "Don't forget this," he said, holding up the duffel.

Dean managed an awkward one-handed, grab and shoulder of the duffel, quickly re-establishing his grip on Violet's shoulders with barely a wobble. He saw the shot gun, the six rounds of rock salt and Sam's clean jeans laid out on the coffee table. "We'll be back within twenty minutes."

"I got it covered," Sam replied.

Dean nodded. "I know you do." He looked up at Henry. "Let's get moving. She's not getting any lighter."

"Hold yer britches," Henry said, taking a staggering step towards Dean.

"Actually, Sammy needs to hold his," Dean smirked. He chuckled when Sam shot him a glare. They moved out into the hall, making their way out the front door.

"That way," Henry nodded.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. The brick smokehouse was less than fifty feet away. Things were finally looking up.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam stood slowly, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. Daisy had ripped a path through him, leaving him drained. He didn't hurt, well, his side did, and his head, but overall it was pure and simple exhaustion that claimed him. He let the cut jeans fall to the ground. He could pick them up later, when the room stopped rotating.

One leg and then the other slipped into the cool denim and he sighed, flopping back into the chair. He was fully dressed again. After the emotional onslaught that left him wide open it was good to no longer feel exposed.

Sam blinked lazily, his eyes drifting closed, before he forced them open. He was alone in the house with two angry spirits. Falling asleep wasn't even close to an option. He picked up the shot gun, resting it in his lap. Fifteen minutes down, Dean and Henry would be back soon. Sam knew he should look for his shoes, but it sounded like a lot more effort than just sitting and that was requiring enough of his focus.

A draft blew by causing Sam to shiver. The air in this room was colder than it had been in the smaller bedroom. An orange blur to his left drew Sam's attention. He tightened his grip on the shot gun and puffed a laugh when a fat, marmalade cat landed on his lap. "Where've you been hiding?" Sam said, a wide smile creasing his face.

The cat kneaded Sam's legs, purring when he scratched it behind the ears. "Ouch," Sam complained. "Stop sharpening your claws on my leg." He gently pushed the cat back to the floor. It shook a hind leg at him, mewing its displeasure as it walked away. "Get over it," Sam muttered.

White granules sparkled on Sam's lap. _What the hell? _He pinched several specks between his fingers, lifting it to his nose for a sniff. He scrunched his forehead at the slightly metallic scent. Sam gingerly tasted a small sample on the tip of his tongue. _Oh shit - salt._

Another cold breeze whipped by fluttering loose papers on the window desk. He lifted the shot gun, easing himself to standing. The cat chose that moment to run between Sam's legs, mewing piteously as it went. It only distracted Sam for a second, but it was long enough. Cold fingers closed around his throat, abruptly shutting of his air supply.

"You killed sister," Violet grated out past frozen, gray lips. "We thought you was special, but you ain't." She pushed harder against Sam's neck forcing him backwards.

The shot gun felt heavy in his hand. He held on to it, knowing it was his one chance at freeing himself from Violet's grasp. "No, it wasn't like that," Sam stalled, his voice barely more than a harsh whisper. He couldn't placate the ghost, but he could buy himself some time.

"Liar!" Violet spat.

Sam's heels hit the wall. There was no more room to retreat. He tightened his grip on the weapon at the same time Violet tightened her grip on his throat. "You killed sister," Violet snarled, leaning in close to his face. Through a narrowing scope of hazy vision, Sam pulled the trigger and fired.

……………………………………………………………**Supernatural**………………………………………………………..

AN: In all my research about conjoined and parasitic twins I never came across a Violet or a Daisy. Then again, I was looking for facts, statistics, biology, etc. Violet's name was established prior to the whole twin idea. When I needed a name for her sister, I went through some girls' names that are also flowers (sent to me by a friend) and chose Daisy.

So, when I started searching for chapter titles, I typed "Violet" into Google. Mmm…old poems mostly about Roses are red, Violets are blue.

Next, I tried "Daisy." Sadly, this resulted in even less hits that would work, but a few fun poems from the 1800's.

Annoyed, I typed: "Violets and Daisies" into the search engine. BAM!

Violet and Daisy Hilton, conjoined twins born in England, moved to Texas. They performed for many years on Vaudeville and starred in a 1936 movie entitled, "Freaks."

They actually lived a rather tragic life – but the whole coincidence of the names was more than a little freaky for me. And, despite what my son says, I am _not _old enough to have seen them perform on stage. :D


	4. We All Fall Down

**Bound for Life**

**Disclaimer: **The show, the boys and the concept belong to Kripke and the CW. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By the ever wonderful Carocali who among helping smooth out some trouble spots, and making wonderful suggestions, also kept track of time when I lost it! Incidentally, I did add the scene – I hope it worked.

Also beta'd by Muffy Morrigan who removed superfluous words, punctuation, and spotted my weapons error. Thanks too for the last minute, final proof-read.

Many, many thanks, ladies!

_Special thanks to S.C. for providing feedback when I needed it, whether she realized it or not._

_As always, I played after it was beta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone._

**Dedicated: **To spnMom for her generous donation to the auction. Enough money was raised to reach the goal and then some! The support and kindness in this fandom is something to be proud of. This is the final chapter, girly. It's been a blast!

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_The shotgun felt heavy in his hand. He held on to it, knowing it was his one chance at freeing himself from Violet's grasp. "No, it wasn't like that," Sam stalled, his voice barely more than a harsh whisper. He couldn't placate the ghost, but he could buy himself some time. _

"_Liar!" Violet spat. _

_Sam's heels hit the wall. There was no more room to retreat. He tightened his grip on the weapon at the same time Violet tightened her grip on his throat. "You killed sister," Violet snarled, leaning in close to his face. Through a narrowing scope of hazy vision, Sam pulled the trigger and fired. _

……………………..…………………………………**We All Fall Down**……………………………………………..………

Henry took off his cap and used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead. A drop of salty water dripped off his nose, catching in the wire strands of his beard. He watched as Dean piled wood into the pit. The younger man hesitated, putting a hand to his stomach, before continuing his frenetic stacking. "I need to apologize," he said, pulling the cap back over his head.

Dean didn't stop piling wood, he just cast a quick look in Henry's direction and kept working. "I'm not the one you should be apologizing to." He stopped, staring at Henry dead-on, green eyes flashing. "But I am the one you should be afraid of."

Henry swallowed hard; he didn't doubt that for a moment. "Well, yeah, I'm sorry for your brother, too." Dean scowled, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "_Very_ sorry," Henry continued. "But, uh, you had some of those cookies, didn't you?"

Dean's scrunched scowl smoothed as Henry's words seemed to register. "That was you?"

"No, no, no," Henry denied, shaking his head. "It was Violet, but I knew about it. I thought it was just a harmless trick on the young busy-bodies that came out this way." Henry took an involuntary step backwards when Dean advanced on him.

A loud crack rent the air turning Dean's expression from angry to concerned instantly. The wide green eyes only lingered inward for a moment, then shot down to the wood pit. "Get the lead out, Henry, we need to finish this."

Henry cocked his head. "Did you hear that?" he asked. "Sounded like a gun shot."

"Yeah," Dean replied, turning to stack the wood even faster than before. "That'd be Sam, so move it!"

Henry took off his cap, tossing it to the floor. "Look, I thought I'd help you boys because you genuinely seem like nice fellas. Turns out Violet wasn't exactly who I thought she was."

"Now he figures it out," Dean muttered, interrupting Henry's rant. "Henry, just shut up and work faster."

"No." Henry thumped his hand against the drying rack. "Your brother's in trouble in there."

Dean was on him so fast, Henry barely had time to recoil when the younger man's hand fisted in his shirt. "You think I don't know that?" he growled. "We need to finish this if we're going to help Sam." Dean punctuated each word by pointing at the wood. "Now help me or get the hell out of my way."

Henry swallowed hard, his eyes flicking away from Dean's intense green stare. "I'll help ya." The irony of the situation didn't escape him. Only a few hours ago, he'd clubbed Sam over the head himself to bring him back for Violet to help Daisy. That was before he understood she was dead or what she had planned. He couldn't shake the image of her spirit, and her aggressive behavior, out of his head.

He'd had some delusion of Daisy just setting up shop quietly inside the boy, living out the remainder of her days and moving on. He hadn't realized that Violet was already warped beyond his recognition and that Daisy couldn't be helped. He shrugged when Dean looked over and glared at him. He saw past the anger sparking in the boy's eyes to the concern for his brother resting beneath.

He didn't see how what they were doing was going to accomplish anything, but Henry picked up a few logs and tossed them into the chip pit. A few more layers of wood and they'd be done, whatever good that would do.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The rock salt hit its mark, Violet dissipating in a cloud of swirling gray. Sam breathed heavily, leaning against the wall for support. He really hated the sensation of being strangled. At least Violet hadn't been able to get a solid hold on his neck. His throat was sore, but he didn't seem to be having any trouble breathing.

He pushed off the wall, stumbling over to the table to reload the shotgun. He hadn't kept any salt, leaving it all for Dean. Sam shoved the extra rounds into his jeans' pockets, not pausing to search for his shoes. He walked towards what he hoped was the kitchen area. He needed salt. Keeping Violet away was one thing, but he'd prefer to prevent her from getting a second chance at his throat.

As luck would have it, the front room was a kitchen. Granted, the old stove had seen decades of use and the lack of a refrigerator threw Sam for a loop, but it didn't matter. He was here for the spices. He rummaged through the cupboard, tossing containers to the floor as he went. Mint, tarragon, and rosemary, all hit the floor, the last one of which broke open scattering dried needles at his feet. He spotted the blue, Morton's salt container behind the baking soda and vanilla.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Violet was back. Sam whirled around, the shotgun up and ready in a fighting stance that would have made his brother proud. "You killed sister." Sam cringed at the distinctive, raspy notes of the angry spirit. He was more familiar with the sound than he cared to admit.

Violet drifted closer and Sam fired. Rock salt found its mark again, leaving a scored pattern on the cheerful wallpaper. Sam fumbled blindly in the cupboard for the salt. His hand wrapped around the cardboard cylinder, the aged paper crinkling under his fingers. Sam tipped the container to pour out a salt circle. Nothing happened. The salt was caked hard inside.

"You gotta be kidding me," Sam groaned. He knocked the container against the counter several times, loosening the granules. He poured a line of salt, the circle almost complete when a breeze shot past him again.

A dry, necrotic whisper tickled his ear, "Murderer."

Sam whirled, gun up, but this time he'd guessed wrong. There was a light kiss of a ghostly touch on his skin before invisible fingers gripped his throat with supernatural strength. One hand shot up reflexively, pulling at fingers that didn't exist. The other hand held tight to the shotgun, hoping for a chance to use the weapon. Air wheezed out of Sam's narrowing airway.

Black spots danced in Sam's vision, his knees threatening to collapse. With an instinct born of years of conditioned behavior Sam called out for help in its purest form. "Dean!" The burners on the gas stove lit up behind him, blue flames flickering in his peripheral vision. "Dean!"

Dishes sprang from the cupboards and flew across the room, shattering into tiny pieces. A large carving knife slowly lifted out of a drawer before racing towards Sam, lodging in the wall behind him. Brown water spurted from the tap, spraying the surrounding walls and cabinets, saturating the floor.

Sam felt his consciousness waning when a new sensation traveled up his leg, under his shirt, tickling his side. _Daisy. _Scaly fingers dug into his skin, scratching as they climbed up the burn to his shoulder. The only thing that kept Sam from yelling was the lack of air. Instead he choked out a strangled, "Dean," only slightly more than a whisper.

"Murderer." The pressure increased slightly, air burning his throat as it whistled through. "Still, Daisy likes this home."

The invasion this time came from within first. Daisy's mind tickled all the familiar spots it had before, pushing hard, pressing into his mind with determination. Sam moaned, there was no air for more. _I can't keep her out this time. I can't think. I can't...Dean, please._

Anger pulsated through Sam's veins, the fear usurped by a new stronger emotion. Fire burned behind his eyes, down his spine, through his blood. It pounded with a raucous fervor, drowning out his wheezing gasps, covering up the noise of the clanking pans, distancing him from his surroundings until only a pinpoint of awareness remained.

It turned hot, nearly burning. Then just as suddenly as it began, it disappeared.

Sam dropped to his knees as if pole-axed. He hunched over, arms curling protectively around his injured torso, forehead resting on the cool floor. He panted in shallow breaths, forcing air past his tortured trachea. He didn't hear the door squeak open, or his brother's light footfalls on the wooden floor, but he didn't need to look to know the gentle touch on his shoulder was Dean's.

"Sammy?" A tentative question, the touch moved down to his arm, pushing him back on his heels. Green eyes, bright with vanishing fear appraised him. "You okay?"

"I'm good," Sam replied hoarsely. He barked a cough, his throat constricting in protest. "Burn the body?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. He tilted Sam's chin, forcing him to make eye contact. "What happened?"

Sam swallowed convulsively. "Violet. Daisy."

Dean nodded, apparently satisfied with Sam's response. "They're gone, Sam."

"I know." Dean helped Sam to his feet and the room spun lazily on its axis. "The smokehouse worked?" Sam asked. He leaned heavily on Dean waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Dean smiled, the tight press of his lips giving way to forced amusement. "Big ass fire, the flames are almost as high as that giant bonfire we had at Pastor Jim's when we were kids."

Sam's forehead creased as he tried to dredge up the memory. He had a vague recollection of a large fire at Pastor Jim's, staying up late sitting next to his brother. He'd been tired, he remembered that much. His nose, fingers and toes were freezing, but he hadn't wanted to miss out spending time doing a big kid thing with Dean. They had sat for hours watching the flames dance, back when fire had meant shared time with his big brother on a crisp autumn evening. Before he'd learned it really meant hunting and loss.

"When was that?" Sam asked. He winced, his own voice echoing painfully inside his skull. He walked forward when Dean coaxed him forward by the elbow. Sam stumbled awkwardly beside his brother down the narrow hall towards the living room.

"Uh, you had just turned four," Dean replied, answering Sam's question in that odd way he had of referencing moments in their lives by Sam's age.

Sam felt the back of his legs hit the chair. He carefully lowered himself into the rocker. Dean sat down on the ottoman, resuming their positions from before the salt and burn. "Son of bitch," Dean muttered, looking at his palm.

"What?" Sam leaned forward, craning his neck to look at Dean's hand.

Dean shoved him back against the chair with one hand to his chest. "You're leaking again."

Sam touched his side, under his shirt, feeling warm wetness on the gauze pad. "I must have popped a stitch. It can wait."

He felt his hand shoved away, his shirt pushed up, Dean's head practically tucked under his arm. "You're going to sit here while I fix this for the third damn time and then you're not moving until I say so. Got it?"

"Yeah, fine," Sam agreed tiredly, not because he was inclined to do whatever Dean said, but because moving was simply too much effort. At least, that was what he was telling himself.

"Your chest hurt?" Dean asked, looking up from doctoring Sam's injured side.

"What?" Sam asked. He realized he'd been absently rubbing the burn that branded him like a sash from side to shoulder. "No, it just stings a little. I didn't even realize until just now."

"Uh-huh," Dean said, his tone suggesting he didn't believe Sam in the least. "I should have taken care of that earlier. I think there's some ointment in the kit."

Sam closed his eyes, listening to the all too familiar sounds of someone rummaging through the first aid supplies. His throat hurt as much as the burn on this chest, but there was no need to point that out. Dean would ferret out the truth soon enough. He barely registered when Dean finished stitching his side. Sam heard the light footfalls of his brother walking away, then muffled sounds of quiet conversation in the hall, his brother's rumble chipping away the last of his determination to stay awake.

-0-0-

The room was dark when he opened his eyes again. The small oil lamp on the table cast only the barest of light, wick kept purposely low. "Dean?" His voice sounded scratchy, rough, a good match for his throat.

"Yeah, Sammy, right here," Dean's voice came from the doorway. Moments later, Dean moved into view, sitting down on the ottoman. He looked tired, the crinkles around his eyes visible in the dim light reminded Sam that Dean had taken a hard knock to the head.

"How's the head?" Sam searched Dean's face knowing the answer would come from there, not Dean's words.

"I'm fine, Sam." The wince was nearly imperceptible, but Sam caught it. Dean was hurting; getting him to admit to it was an entirely different matter.

Sam noticed Dean had taken the time to change at some point. His jeans and t-shirt were free from mud. Dirt still covered Dean's face, streaked by clean lines where sweat had washed it away. Apparently his brother's efforts to get clean didn't include washing. It only took him a beat to realize why. "I'm good if you want to go wash up," Sam offered. He nodded towards the shotgun resting on Dean's lap. "I'm awake. I can keep an eye out."

"Neither one of those bitches are coming back, Sam," Dean asserted, missing the true purpose of his offer. Sam wanted his big brother to stand down, relax for just a minute. He couldn't tell if Dean was intentionally missing the point or not.

"I know," Sam said, tapping Dean on the arm. "Just thought you might want to wash some of the mud off your face."

Dean smirked. "What's the matter, Sammy? I'm not clean enough for you?"

Sam tossed him an unheated glare. "Actually, you look like shit, Dean." He paused, a flash of remembrance now that Daisy no longer muddled his thoughts. Sam puffed a laugh.

"What?" Dean scrunched his face.

"Nothing," Sam lied. "Really, go wash up."

Dean seemed to debate it for a moment, then cast it aside with a shake of his head. "Henry's due back any minute. He's towing the Impala here, says he knows another way into town."

So, that was it, now Sam understood. Dean didn't trust Henry. "You think it's drivable?"

"Yeah, but first chance we get to stop and take a good look at it, I'm doing it." Dean scrubbed a hand down his gritty face. "I could go for some dinner right about now."

"You're hungry?" Sam didn't know how late it was, he'd lost track of time from the moment the car hit the support beam.

"I walked close to eight miles to get here," Dean said. "Unlike you, who got to ride."

Sam scowled in protest. "In the back of a beat up truck."

It was Dean's turn to scowl before his face softened, smoothed. "Henry's doing some butt-kissing to make up for his serious error in judgment."

"He shouldn't feel so bad," Sam said hoarsely, a yawn splitting his face. The physical injuries were nothing compared to how wiped he felt from Daisy's onslaught. He caught the look of sheer disbelief on Dean's face. "I mean, he did do the right thing in the end."

"What kind of mixed up logic is that?" Dean asked, the skepticism on his face sneaking into his tone.

"I just mean once he had all the facts, he did the right thing." Sam blinked hard against the lure of sleep. Dean needed a break from being on alert.

"Sam, he handed you over to Violet to buy Daisy a few more years on earth," Dean said. "He probably helped her with the three other people she tried it on too." Sam cringed at Dean's words. Dean didn't seem to notice Sam's reaction and continued unabated. "It wasn't Henry having a change of heart that caused him to see the truth, it was Violet turning on him."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam conceded, reluctantly. He yawned again, shifting in the chair. The stitched wound throbbed insistently, making it difficult to find a comfortable position.

Dean unscrewed the lid from a bottle of water. "Here," Dean said. He handed the bottle to Sam, then reached down for another, opening one for himself. Sam drank in long draughts, the cool water soothing his dry throat. "These, too."

Sam held out his hand and Dean dropped three pills into his palm. "You should, too," Sam said, nodding at his brother. He downed the Tylenol with a gulp of water. It was a mistake. The caplets felt like large chunks of jagged rock going down his throat.

"Already did," Dean said. He finished his water, screwing the lid back on the bottle. Sam raised an eyebrow, not sure if Dean was telling the truth or not. "It's just Tylenol, Sam. Not the good stuff." The last part said with a smirk.

"We have good stuff?" Sam teased, leaning sideways to peer into the duffel. He thought the last of the Percocet had disappeared with the burn in Dean's shoulder courtesy of the Papa Bender. The wound in his side pulled tight, forcing an involuntary groan behind Sam's closed lips. Dean pushed him back in the chair with a single hand to his chest.

"Sam, I swear to God if I didn't know any better…" Dean's voice trailed off and he shook his head. He twisted the plastic water bottle absent-mindedly in his hands.

"What?" Sam scrunched his forehead.

The faraway look in Dean's eyes disappeared, the greens refocusing on Sam. "I'd swear you were trying to get back at me." The bottle crinkled as it started to collapse in Dean's wringing hands.

"For what?" Sam asked, confused. "Why?"

"Doesn't matter," Dean said with another headshake. He seemed to reconsider his position, his face twisting in indecision. He twisted the deformed bottle tighter. "You're not, are you?"

"What, Dean?" Sam forced himself not to sigh. "I can't really answer you until I know the question."

"You're not paying me back for the way I kept peeling the scab off the burn I got from Hannibal Lecter's hillbilly cousin, are you?" Dean asked, the words said so quickly they nearly blended together.

"What?" Sam rubbed his temples, wincing when his fingers came into contact with the small bump on his head from the car crash. Maybe Henry had hit him on the head harder than Sam thought because he was having a difficult time following Dean's convoluted logic. "No."

"No?" Dean's back bowed as he went from ramrod straight to hunched in relief. "Then you're just being a general pain in the ass?"

Sam puffed a laugh. "Yeah, well, you've done a pretty good job of setting a poor example my whole life."

The lines of indignation quickly morphed to puckered amusement. He laughed, his chuckle joining Sam's. "You got me there." He gave the bottle a final twist and the lid popped off with a resounding bang. Sam jumped in the chair. "Sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized sheepishly, though the smirk made a brief reappearance in contradiction to his words.

The short-lived laughter fell away, leaving Sam spent, utterly depleted. "It's okay." He blinked hard, forcing his eyes open. Dean said Henry was due back any moment, he could hold out until then.

"Get some sleep, Sammy," Dean's quiet voice in contradiction with the near command.

Sam breathed deeply to cover a muffled yawn, letting his eyes drift close. All his good intentions of staying awake so Dean could rest dissolved as he fell asleep.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean watched until Sam fell asleep. He rotated his head, popping his neck several times, then stretched until he felt his back do the same. His muscles were stiff, probably from the crash earlier and his head beat in rhythm to his frustration. They were stuck here until Henry returned. If Henry decided to turn tail and run, it would be days before Sam was up to hiking the twelve miles into town. The loss of control set him on edge, made him fidgety. He stood up, pacing to the doorway. He gazed down the dark hall, out the screen door. No sign of Henry yet.

He glanced over his shoulder at his brother. Sam stirred, his hand already searching for Dean in the empty space he'd recently vacated. Dean came back and sat on the ottoman, Sam's fingers brushed his shoulder. "Dean?"

"Go back to sleep, Sammy." Sam made a noise that might have been Dean's name or an 'okay', had Sam's lips actually moved. His fingers tightened in the fabric of Dean's t-shirt briefly, then fell away.

The truck pulled into the yard with a loud rumble. Dean strode to the doorway to gaze down the hall. Moments later, the screen door squeaked open, sounding louder in the quiet of night. A couple fireflies entered the hall with Henry, zipping around him crazily before jetting off in two different directions.

"Did you get her?" Dean asked.

Henry's eyes flicked from the gun Dean held loosely at his side to Dean's face. "Yeah, she's okay, just some minor damage to the bumper."

"Front axel?" Dean asked. It was difficult to believe even the tough steel of the Impala had survived without any real damage.

"It's good, Dean," Henry said. "Won't be a problem for ya to drive it to town."

"Good." Dean walked back to his brother. "Sam, wake up," Dean said, shaking his brother's arm lightly. Sam responded with a frown, breath stuttering for a second, then returning to normal. "Sam?"

"I'm awake," Sam replied in a voice that sounded very much alert.

"Great, that means he's really out," Dean muttered, ignoring Henry's pulled look of confusion. "Sam!"

"Hmm," Sam responded with a low, humming sound.

"Just move with me, okay?" Dean asked, looping an arm under Sam's. "I'll point you in the right direction, but you have to walk with me."

"Mmm, sure." Sam, to his credit, did stand when Dean urged him.

Sam stumbled beside him as they slowly made their way to the Impala. As they drew closer, Dean noticed the window had been patched with plastic and duct tape. Anger flared briefly at the damage to his car. The temporary fix was not ideal, but at least it would keep wind and rain off his little brother.

Dean held Sam against the side of the car with one hand, while jiggling the door handle with the other. Sam pitched forward, his knees buckling and Dean fought to keep them both upright. "Sam, you gotta help me out here," Dean said.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and if Dean was correct, Violet. Sam's neck sported deepening, red-purple bruises.

He swung the door open, pleased to discover the glass had been cleaned off the seat and floor. Sam obediently collapsed into the Impala when pushed to sit. Dean tucked his brother's long legs into the car, before closing the door with a click. He whirled around to find Henry standing right behind him.

"He okay?" Henry asked, jerking a thumb in Sam's direction. The hangdog look on Henry's face spoke of his guilt. "I feel bad about what happened and I…"

Dean held up his hand to silence Henry. "Look, I'm not your friend. In fact, I don't like you," He shook his head. "And I don't trust you. As far as I'm concerned, this is the last we'll see of each other. Ever."

"No reason to get uppity," Henry protested. "I'm just trying to apologize."

"Not interested." Dean walked around to the driver's side of the car. He looked at Henry over the roof. "Good-bye, Henry."

"Bye, Dean. Just follow me into town." Henry backed away from the Impala, his dark shadow melting into the side of his truck.

Dean glanced over at his brother, the light rise and fall of his chest granting Dean reassurance that once more, they'd made it through okay. Hurt, tired, emotionally screwed to hell, but they were okay. He threw the car into drive and followed the red glow of the taillights on Henry's truck.

Dean turned the tape player on low; the steady beat calming him, changing his mood from tightly wound high alert back to normal levels. The pre-dawn, lightening sky signaled the impending start of a new day.

He sang along softly with the music, tapping a light beat on the steering wheel. The road was rougher on this route than the original one they had taken to Violet's. Dean cursed every bump, but Sam slept on, oblivious.

As they approached town, the sun poked up over the horizon. Dean let out a weary sigh. He'd finished so many days of his life by greeting the morning sun, at times it almost felt unnatural to go to bed at night.

Henry slowed, waving Dean to go around him as the highway came into sight. Dean waved to the old man on his way by, hoping that Henry would find some way to explain Violet's sudden disappearance and the huge smokehouse fire. As annoyed as he was with Henry, he didn't want the man's last days to be in prison.

Dean turned the Impala onto the highway. He thought about pushing on to the next town, but the closest one was nearly fifty miles away and frankly, he was beat. Instead, Dean pulled into the Blue Oasis lot and parked near the motel office. Sam adjusted in his seat, but otherwise made no indication of waking. Dean pocketed the keys and slipped out of the car.

It didn't take long to charm the motel clerk into letting them check in early for the next day's stay. He was surprised considering he had to look like crap. Then again, maybe he'd managed to channel his little brother and the puppy dog eyes had worked for him for a change, rather than making people think he was a serial killer.

A light mist sprinkled Dean's skin as he strode back to the car. Birds tweeted as the sun broke free from the light cloud cover in the east turning the sky a brilliant shade of pink. Sam was awake, his head darting side to side as he looked for something – someone, Dean realized.

"Got us a room on the end," Dean said, opening the door. And just like that, Sam relaxed, his back curving to rest against the seat, his eyes whisking away to return without the flares of panic in them. "Thought I might shower before I crash, but I can wait if you want to go first."

Sam shook his head. "I'm good."

"Good, 'cause I wasn't going to let you have it anyway."

Sam puffed a laugh, then frowned. "Where are we?"

"Just back in town," Dean said, pulling into the parking spot and switching off the car. He twisted in his seat to look at Sam. "I'm tired. Thought we could sleep here a night."

Sam nodded, opening his door. He moved stiffly, cradling his torso. Dean had their duffels before Sam made it to the trunk. "Sorry," Sam apologized. "Here, let me take one."

Dean scrunched his face. "You think I can't carry two lousy bags, Sam?" He clapped Sam on the shoulder and spun him around, herding him towards the door. "Next thing you know, you'll want to hold my hand to cross the street."

"Nice, thanks," Sam said. He leaned against the doorjamb.

Dean worked the lock, swinging the door open wide. Sam shuffled past him, toed off his shoes, and peeled back the blankets. He lowered himself slowly onto the bed. Dean tossed the duffels onto the floor. He made a second trip to the Impala for the first aid kit, tossing it on his bed. The shower called to him and he headed to the bathroom, pausing long enough to see Sam had fallen asleep. Dean narrowed his eyes, frowning. _Or he passed out. _

He stooped to swing Sam's legs onto the bed, ignoring the grumbles of displeasure. "Just sleep, Sammy," he said, slapping Sam softly on shoulder. He tossed Sam's discarded jeans to the foot of the bed; then covered him with a blanket. Dean briefly entertained the notion that his own bed sounded better than a shower, until the scent of frog reached his nose.

He flicked on the light in the bathroom, leaving the door slightly cracked. Dean turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the bathroom, small wisps curling out the door. The heat stripped him of almost all his remaining energy. He showered quickly, donned his t-shirt and boxers and left the bathroom toweling his hair dry. Sam stirred restlessly in the artificially darkened room, a rumpled pile of blankets on the floor at his feet.

Dean reached down, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Dean?" Sam asked, the word slurred by sleep. The eyes behind his lids darting back and forth in dream sleep. "Don't go."

"Not going anywhere, Sammy," Dean reassured him, stooping to pick up the blankets. He covered Sam again, and then lay down on his own bed. The rising sun shone through the gap in the curtains, casting a sliver of light onto the orange, shag carpet. The light wouldn't be a problem, he'd learned many years ago how to force himself to sleep, to take advantage of limited downtime. Sam moaned softly in his sleep. Dean turned on his side to look at his brother. It was Sam who would keep Dean awake.

"Brother," Sam mumbled, kicking a leg out from under the covers, one hand searching blindly.

Dean sighed softly, scrubbing a hand down his face. This would be a long day no matter how he cut it. He padded over to Sam's bed, pillow and blanket in tow. "Sammy, move over."

"Hmmm?" Sam hummed. His eyelids cracked open revealing slits of hazel.

"Move over." Dean pushed Sam lightly and that was the only encouragement Sam needed. Years of sharing when they were younger meant Sam responded to Dean's words, half asleep or not.

"Stop shoving," Sam mumbled in protest. He turned onto his uninjured side, back against the wall. Dean had no sooner settled in, when he felt Sam shift again, his long legs and arms curling into the few empty spaces available on the bed. The minutes ticked by. "Dean?" Sam's voice was awake, aware.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm here." Dean propped a pillow behind his back. He bent his legs, leaning against the headboard. Bare toes tapped on the bottom sheet, the only remaining sign of left over adrenaline.

He glanced down at Sam. His brother blinked, fighting back exhaustion. Sam's forehead scrunched in confusion, his hazels flicking up to Dean. He smirked when Sam's tired mind seemed to piece together the puzzle, the wrinkles smoothing, a slight smile playing briefly on Sam's face. "Sorry, was I keeping you awake?"

Dean pulled a blanket over his legs, hiding his traitorous toes from sight. "No, your bed looked less lumpy. You always hog the good bed."

Sam puffed a laugh. "Right, well, I should tell you, I have the best pillow, too."

"I knew it," Dean grumbled. Silence descended upon the brothers in a blanket of comfortable familiarity. He knew Sam wasn't asleep, just waiting for him to talk or go to sleep. He probably wasn't sure which Dean would do. Dean smothered a laugh of his own, even he wasn't entirely sure.

Finally, Sam decided for both of them by breaking the quiet. "For just a minute there at the end, I could feel Daisy inside me and Violet through her connection to Daisy. I could hear all three of our voices in my head, read all their thoughts, feel everything they felt." He paused, apparently waiting for some reaction from him, because Sam continued when Dean looked at him. "It wasn't all that strange really."

That statement deserved a response. Dean raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to retort, the smartass comment already forming when Sam interrupted.

"Shut up, I just meant their relationship wasn't all that different from ours." Sam tucked one arm under his head. "They could sense each other's emotions, know each others thoughts. They were connected."

"Yeah," Dean agreed nodding. "Literally." He shuddered in mock horror. "Did you see…?"

"Yeah, Violet showed me," Sam replied.

"Kinky," Dean smirked. "She's a little old for you, don't you think?"

"Funny." Sam shook his head. "You know what I meant."

"I know," Dean tapped his fingers on his knees. "But we can't do those things."

"Not literally, Dean." Sam huffed, in his perfect 'my big brother is an idiot' way. "But we can tell by body language, nonverbal cues, sometimes even more by what we don't say, than what we do."

"Yeah, Sam," Dean nodded. "It's called being brothers."

"Exactly," Sam beamed, yawning wide.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Circular Sam logic and lack of sleep were wearing down the last of his reasoning abilities. "Get some rest, Sam. I'm just going to watch TV for a little while."

Sam smiled knowingly, the unspoken gratitude clearly conveyed.

_Okay, so maybe Sammy has a point. _"Get some rest," Dean repeated. He didn't catch Sam's mumbled reply, but very soon afterwards, the even breathing signified Sam had fallen back to sleep. Hopefully, he'd stay asleep.

He snagged the remote, flipping through the channels. As luck would have it, the last fifteen minutes of a well-remembered episode of the _Rockford Files _was playing. Dean turned the volume down until he could just barely make out the words. He knew them all by heart anyway.

The two of them on a double bed had long ceased being comfortable. Dean's left arm rested on the nightstand in an effort to anchor himself. The mattress edging poked into Dean's leg, one foot hanging off the side. Yet, he knew he'd get more rest this way than listening to Sam suffer through Daisy's nightmares, with maybe a little of his own thrown in.

Dean listened to the steady drone of the television set, the blue light dancing across his face. Sam shifted, his fingers brushing Dean's t-shirt then disappearing back under his pillow. Dean relaxed, the sore muscles from walking through mud sinking deeper into the mattress. This would work, now they could both get some sleep.

He scooted further down the bed, nestling deeper into the blankets. He closed his eyes, drifting along the edge of unawareness. Dean felt an odd sense of kinship with Violet. He understood perfectly well, trying to protect your sibling at all costs. He'd do anything for Sam. Their lives were as irrevocably bound as Violet and Daisy.

Dean's gaze shifted from the television to Sam and back again. He couldn't imagine his life any other way. _They were brothers. _As far as Dean was concerned, that said it all.

_Fin_

…..……………………………………………………**Supernatural**………………………………………………………….

AN: Thank you to K Hanna for organizing the auction, and spnMom for bidding! I didn't realize how nerve-wracking it would be writing for someone who paid for a story. Thank you for your patience!

AN2: A huge thank you to Muffy and Carocali for beta'ing the final two chapters (and not making me beg too hard).

Wysawyg has several new and exciting things happening all at once and while she did not ask to be let out of her 'sacred beta duties' - I let her off the hook.

P.S. No matter what she tells you, I did _not _borrow her muse and return it as a SamGirl. :)

AN3: Thanks also to S.C. for her words of wisdom throughout. I didn't expect so much feedback. I swear, the chapter exchange was 'no strings attached!'

Geek Fact: Salt cakes at a tensile strength close to 300 Pa in high humidity situations, nearly twice that of sugar. See? You learn something new every day.

Thanks all!


End file.
